Dagger and Rose
by Perspicacity
Summary: Dumbledore doesn’t ignore the 2nd prophecy! He apprentices Harry and teaches him a rare form of magic, but draws the ire of a secret society who seek to guard this knowledge and do Harry in. Assassination attempts on multiple fronts. H/F, Yr. 4 GoF AU.
1. Apprenticeship

Extended summary: Dumbledore acts decisively on the second prophesy at the end of Harry's third year and rescues Harry from his relatives with an offer of apprenticeship. From him, Harry learns a rare form of magic, Runescriving, based on alchemy and which forms the basis for much of Dumbledore's and Voldemort's power. Unfortunately, this draws the attention of a secret society who guard this information jealously and who seek to eliminate Harry. During his training, Harry meets an aloof, lonely, quarter-veela witch and the two strike up a friendship that eventually blossoms into something more. Matters are complicated by Fleur's arranged betrothal to a man she does not truly love and her family's close association with the very group trying to do Harry in. Harry suffers alienation from his peers, assassination attempts on multiple fronts, the travails of the Tri-Wizard tournament, and growing pains as he discovers who he is. Later chapters rated M for language and adult situations.

Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**DAGGER AND ROSE**

By Perspicacity

* * *

CHAPTER 1

Apprenticeship

* * *

"Expecto Patronum!"

_A giant, silver stag bursts from the end of the boy's wand, a conical wall of force tens of meters in all directions trailing behind it. Unnoticed by the caster, whose attention is on the horde of dementors converging on his godfather and doppleganger, his wand buckles with the force of his spell. He is unaware of the visible aura surrounding him, of the white motes that arc across his body, of the faint wisps of smoke that rise from the end of his still-glowing wand. His companion, a brown-haired witch also dressed in Hogwarts robes, stumbles back in alarm as she sees the intense blaze of his eyes and feels the crackling of air pregnant with latent power. _

_His foes are driven off by the fury of the charm and their screeches of rage and fright become more distant. The boy lowers his wand and strides, predacious, to the tethered hippogriff. He peers directly into the proud creature's eyes. He doesn't bow, yet the beast instinctively ducks its head and kneels in submission. He mounts and beckons his companion to join him._

A minute later, Professor Dumbledore and a visibly shaken Hermione Granger leave the memory and find themselves standing next to one another in the Headmaster's office beside a wide stone basin filled with misting fluid.

"Take a seat, please, Miss Granger. And thank you for sharing with me your most intriguing memory. Indeed, this gives me much to ponder."

The witch sits tentatively onto her chair, one of four padded, Queen Anne pieces, chestnut, with carved _cabriole_ legs resembling dragon's claws. The chairs accent the Headmaster's massive desk, polished oak with ebony inlays and a bombe base, that dominates the office.

"What do you think it means, Professor? I've known Harry for three years and he's never shown anything like... like..."

"Like such a convincing display of unbridled power?" He looks at the witch, who fidgets in her chair. "Miss Granger, tell me honestly how you felt that day with respect to Harry's display."

"Awed. Overwhelmed," she says, meekly. "Terrified."

He nods, deep in thought. "I confess, I too am curious how young Harry has come into his own so quickly." He pauses, then gestures to a crystal dish of yellow candies. "Curious, mind you, but not surprised. Lemon drop?" Hermione shakes her head. The Headmaster stands and maunders toward the office window, where he sits and gazes out over the lake far to the south. "Hermione, do you believe that young Harry and Sirius Black could tolerate one other? Could they work together for an extended period of time?"

The witch is taken aback, both by the sudden change in topic and his familiar tone, the first time in her memory that he has addressed her by her given name. "Y-yes, professor. Harry mentioned that he had never been as happy as when he believed that he could go live with Sirius and not have to go to Little Whinging to stay with his relatives. I think Sirius felt the same about Harry, sir, at least that's what he said."

"Most interesting." With a sigh, the Headmaster stands. "Miss Granger, I apologize for having kept you so long chatting with an old man when you could be out enjoying this fine day. Might I recommend a stroll along the path by the lake? I understand that Mr. Weasley's injuries are healed and I dare say he would make admirable company on such an adventure." He gives her a kind smile.

Hermione reddens with the comment, but nods to the Headmaster and stands to leave.

The professor looks out over the water again, the green surface glittering with reflected sunlight. "Harry, my boy, it is time we had a long talk."

* * *

Harry blinks with surprise. "An apprenticeship, sir?" He and the Headmaster are seated on the bed in Harry's tiny room in his relatives' house on Privet Drive. The older man shifts as he tries in vain to find a comfortable way to sit atop Harry's yellow-brown, lumpy mattress. Much to the Headmaster's disgust, the sweat-stained bed has no sheets and the pillow lacks a pillowcase. The room has a dank, musty odor, as if it were sealed and only recently opened. He doesn't miss the several muggle locks on the door or the cat flap at its whitewashed base.

The Headmaster's unannounced arrival earlier that evening just after Harry's return had spurred a terrible row between Harry and his aunt and uncle. The two hateful muggles had only backed down and allowed the Headmaster entrance after he had released his aura, a brilliant flash of gold that had made even Harry back up a step. Harry and his visitor had retired to Harry's room for privacy and to avoid further confrontation.

The offer of apprenticeship was the second-to-last thing Harry had expected to hear this evening. The last thing was to learn of a prophesy made before his birth that presaged the death of Harry, Voldemort, or both. "_Neither shall live while the other survives.._." A prophesy that was the reason his parents died. Harry smiles at the irony, his role in saving the world, muggle and magical alike, revealed moments after being screamed at by his gin-addled uncle for the mortal sin of "freakishness."

Hedwig, Harry's snowy owl, makes a soft "hoot." Harry rises to stroke her head and he fishes in his pocket for a treat. He consciously avoids eye contact with his Professor out of wariness and shame at his circumstances.

"But how will I be able to keep up? I mean, I'm nothing special, sir, not even a fourth year. I'm rubbish at potions and divination and... are you sure you don't want someone like Hermione instead?" He looks down at his feet, toes poking out of holes in dingy tube socks. As he speaks, he twists his left big toe into the threadbare carpet, inwardly horrified that the Headmaster has seen the squalor in which he lives.

"Yes, Harry. Though Miss Granger is undoubtedly a highly talented witch, among the brightest to grace the halls of Hogwarts, I believe she is ill suited for the rigors of apprenticeship. And fate has not thrust her into the fore as it has you.

"For reasons I won't burden you with, even in the absence of the prophesies I had intended to offer you an apprenticeship following your NEWT examinations. However, with circumstances as they are, it seems most prudent to prepare you as soon and as fully as possible for what we both know is coming. I cannot imagine what would befall all of us were you to encounter Voldemort or his Death Eaters with inadequate preparation."

He clears his throat and speaks formally, "And you should understand, Mr. Potter, that it is a very high honor that is being offered to you, one that is rare for anyone, even an adult wizard. Though I assure you I've had no shortage of requests, I've never taken an apprentice."

It takes a moment for Harry to assimilate this, his face brightening for the first time since the Headmaster has visited. "Um... if I accept, will you be teaching me this summer at... at Hogwarts, sir?"

"Please don't stammer, Harry. Decide what you wish to say and say it. If you accept, and I hope that you do, you shall indeed leave this place for more happy environs. I believe Hagrid will be most pleased, as will two others whom I have approached regarding your tutelage."

A slight smile forms on Dumbledore's lips as a minor manipulation falls into alignment with his wishes. A surreptitious _Legillimens_ of Harry's guardians had allowed him to glimpse just how unpleasant Harry's stay had been, silent misery behind a facade of postwar conformity, a useful tool in the "negotiation," if this preordained outcome can be considered as such.

"Harry, before we commence, I must make one thing clear. Apprenticeship is a type of bond, similar to those you share with Mr. Pettigrew and Miss Weasley through their life debts. Once we begin, you cannot leave your apprenticeship, save by my passing or formal release. Were you to attempt to terminate on your own volition, you would find the experience most disagreeable…."

* * *

"_Merde_!" The platinum-haired witch blows a strand of hair off her face and she tucks it into the elastic band into which she has pulled her long hair. Her cheeks are flushed, the southerly breeze off the sea too warm and faint to keep her silken robes from being sodden with perspiration. "_Encore_, _s'il vous plait_." Her light complexion matches the cream colored walls of the classroom.

The observer, a dark-haired, middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed beard and charcoal robes waves his wand in a wide arc and four man-sized dummies, each decorated with the crossed golden wands of the Beauxbatons crest, animate at the other side of the chamber. The witch assumes a classic dueling stance as the golems begin to fire stinging hexes.

Ducking a particularly close hex, she waves her wand in a fluid sequence, The first spell, a mild bludgeoning hex, strikes a dummy in the neck and spins it around. The second, a medium-strength cutting hex, impacts where its kidney would be and disables it. The rate of fire from the remaining dummies ratchets upward.

After several minutes of graceful ducking and shielding, her feet shuffling and scraping across the polished oak floor, a second dummy is dispatched and the speed at which the hexes fire accelerates again. A stinging hex bypasses her shield and kisses her chin with a scrape and a purple welt. She cries out, more in anger than pain, and spins, furious, toward the nearest dummy.

"_Frango ós_." She jabs her wand in its direction and follows with a hooking motion. A writhing yellow beam jets from her wand and shatters the dummy to kindling.

Before the final dummy can speed up, the witch spins toward it and growls "_conseco artus_!" With a diagonal slash, a bright blue ribbon erupts from her wand and slices the dummy in two.

She pants for a moment and looks to the man observing her, who has walked over to her. He strokes her cheek gently and waves his wand over her face. The blemishes fade. "_Ma petite,_ you put on an interesting display," he says as he places a light kiss on her forehead. "Bone-shattering and limb severing curses? I had no idea you were so adept at tapping your... darker side." He smirks. "Olympe would be most amused."

"Father, I..."

He holds up his hands and she quiets. "Fleur, you know I have no problem with your expanding your repertoire. No doubt you'll need to if you intend to participate in this silly competition." The disdain in his voice is unmasked.

"Father, it's what I wish. I need to do this." She looks at her father, her heart heavy from the disappointment she reads from his gaze. "I wish to be something special." She takes a deep breath and looks him in the eye. "I want more than just to be an accessory to a powerful man, Father."

"Silence, child. What _I_ wish is that I could forbid you to participate, but we both know I cannot since you came of age." His dark eyes flash with anger. "Just understand the risks you take--both to you and your family. We would be shamed if you were to return disfigured and your intended were to void the betrothal." His face becomes cold, distant. "Gabrielle may not appreciate taking your place and I have no doubt that your mother would make it so."

* * *

"Headmaster?" Harry asks, shifting uncomfortably in his chair in the headmaster's office

"Albus, Harry. I must insist that as my apprentice-to-be you make a habit of referring to me in this manner. It is tradition, you know, originating before my own mentor, Nicolas." The old man continues his study of a parchment on his desk. He signs a page with a flourish and sets the eagle quill next to a crystal ink bottle.

"Yes sir. Albus."

The Headmaster looks up. "Better. This afternoon, we shall discuss the essence of magic, a subject of which, I fear, you are rather ignorant." The headmaster picks up another parchment from his desk and reads it slowly. "I see that you read neither arithmancy nor ancient runes. A pity, as either would have given us some basis on which to build." Harry lowers his eyes--he had never given his electives much thought, choosing easy courses with Ron for want of anything better. The headmaster steeples his hands, his fingertips resting on his lips, as he reads his apprentice's expression and divines his thoughts. "Friendship, Harry, is a most admirable influence. But in this case you would have been better served had you accompanied your other friend, Miss Granger.

"Let us begin at the beginning. Tell me, in your own words, what is a spell?"

"I think it's when you, um, focus your magic..." The disappointment Harry sees on his mentor's face distracts Harry from his unsatisfactory answer.

"Harry," the Headmaster cuts him off and shakes his head slowly. "We have much work to do. Being raised by muggles, you would not have been exposed to much of this, but I am surprised that you either received no guidance to our world or you ignored it. Did Hagrid not give you the materials we provide to muggle-raised witches and wizards?"

Harry feels annoyed, as if being blamed for something outside his control. He says defensively, "No Albus. He didn't give me anything. Nothing more than a few offhand comments when we visited Diagon Alley."

The headmaster sighs. "I believe that our groundskeeper, admirable though his intentions may have been, must have assumed that you already knew of our world when he visited you. For this I deserve a share of the blame. Given how you were raised, when you were first contacted, you should have received copies of _So you're a Wizard_ and _A Muggleborn's Guide to the Magical World_, both excellent introductions to the foundations of magical theory. Indeed, I'm surprised you have done as well as you have in your studies without any formal background—I suspect that you may have compensated for your ignorance by using your other gifts, prodigious as they may be. As my first assignment to you, I ask that you redress this oversight and acquire and peruse these texts in full before our next meeting.

"Moreover, I have spoken at length with Professor Vector; in return for a modest stipend, which you will pay from your trust vault, she has offered to tutor you in arithmancy this holiday to bring you "up to speed," as it were. Please contact her to arrange your tutorials. I suggest that you meet twice a week for the remainder of the summer. Harry, it is imperative that you apply yourself fully to this endeavor. I expect you to matriculate with the fourth years in September, though I would be most pleased if you were to advance further, as it is "integral" to what I plan for your training." The headmaster chuckles. "Sorry. I'm susceptible to bad puns." Harry manages a polite smile, missing the humor entirely.

"I also expect that you will begin study of runes, starting with ancient runes. Professor Abdulah is on sabbatical this holiday, so I have arranged in his stead for you to read with Professor Lupin, who would hold a Mastery in the subject were he not a werewolf. Runic forms are the basis for the wand movements that you use with spells, as well as other, more sophisticated magic. It is an excellent complement to arithmancy and will be central to the special instruction that I will be providing you."

"But Albus, with these subjects and the work I already have with Sirius and Remus, I won't have nearly enough time..."

"Harry, the goblin community has much to teach us wizards. If you have ever gambled with goblins, as I did in my younger days, you would know that they are legendary for their, shall we say, liberal interpretation of the rules. I understand that your friend, Miss Granger, shared with you how she accomplished her remarkable academic feats last year?"

A slow grin spreads on Harry's face, "You mean I get to use a time turner?"

The headmaster opens his desk and pulls out a familiar hourglass device on a slender gold chain. He hands it to Harry, who loops the chain around his neck. "Yes, Harry. Fate has dealt you a bad hand, one that you must you play, for good or ill. When in such a position, one must channel one's inner goblin and cheat like the dickens."

* * *

"Ron, please remember that Mr. Crouch is a very busy man. You are to answer his questions directly and not waste his time," Percy Weasley says to his lanky, red-haired brother as they board the lift. He punches the button for floor five, Department of International Magical Cooperation.

Ron sighs and puts his hands in the pockets of ancient maroon dress robes trimmed with torn, greying lace. "Yeah, Perce. I'll be sure." They wait for a silver-haired witch to hobble off the lift on the floor for the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. As the doors slide closed, he makes a face to his older brother. "Why did I have to wear these robes again? I look like a bloody girl!"

"Ron, language?" he says through clenched teeth, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses. "You're in the Ministry--dress robes are the proper attire."

"I don't see anyone else wearing bloody dress robes besides us," he grumbles.

Percy opens his mouth to comment, but the elevator bell rings and they get off instead and walk down a long corridor, paneled in black marble veneer veined in silver. Several offices open off the main corridor. Percy stops at a narrow door halfway to the end and opens it. Inside is a tiny broom closet that has been converted to a makeshift office. "Here's my office, Ron. Unlike Dad, I have my own--I don't have to share." He stands, smug, in front of the doorway.

Ron fights back a snort and nods as he reads the steel placard next to the door. "P. Weatherby? Who's that?"

His brother reddens. "They, er, spelled my name wrong. Anyway, let's go." He pulls Ron behind him and marches them to the end of the corridor, where an ornate door stands closed. Just outside, he stops and pulls Ron aside.

"Remember, don't speak unless Mr. Crouch asks you something. He specifically asked to meet you, which is a high honor from a man as important as Mr. Crouch. If you make a good impression, it could really bolster your career, Ron."

"Uh huh," he says with disinterest, having heard the lecture several times in the last few days. He doesn't know why he is here, except that Mr. Crouch asked for him for some reason.

The two enter the office and Percy greets the secretary, a heavy-set, mousy-haired woman wearing heavy makeup and dark blue robes. She sets the file she is using to buff her nails upon the desk. Percy stiffens and says, officiously, "Percival Ignatius Weasley and Ronald Billius Weasley here to meet Mr. Crouch. We have an appointment."

She rolls her eyes, nodding, and touches her index finger to a small cylinder of polished red stone the size of a small stack of Knuts. "Sir, your ten o'clock is here."

"Send them in," a curt voice replies.

"Go on in, boys," she says, returning to her nails.

Percy and Ron enter the ornately decorated office and stand atop a thick, Persian rug where a dapper man with pinstriped robes and a neatly trimmed mustache steps forward. He nods to Percy, "Weatherby." Ron's eyebrows rise. "So this is your brother, Ronald. I've heard much about you, son." He and Ron shake hands and Ron notices that his hands are clammy and the man's eye has a tic. "You're a good friend of Harry Potter's, aren't you?"

Ron grimaces slightly at Harry's mention. Percy coughs and he remembers to answer. "Uh, yes, sir. Harry and I are best mates."

"I'd like to speak with you for a bit to get to know you better, Ronald, or do you go by Ron?"

"Ron is good, sir."

"Okay, Ron." He smiles, placing a hand on Ron's shoulder. Percy's face pales at the familiarity his boss is showing his brother. "Weatherby, go fetch us some tea please."

"Uh, yes, sir, Mr. Crouch, sir." He half-bows and backs out of the room.

The older man walks to the door and closes it. As he does, Ron catches a red-pink glow out of the corner of his eye and a warm, comforting feeling envelops him.

* * *

"_Silencio_. So what you're saying, or would be saying if you could speak, Harry, is that you're now just a pathetic squib?" The raven-haired instructor spits onto the granite floor, disgusted. "Merlin, who needs _Adava Kevadra_ when you could be done in with a simple silencing hex? You're weak, Harry, pathetic! And you're wasting our time here. Let's see if you can at least dodge and get something out of this exercise. _Expelliarmus. Stupefy. Diffindo_." A burst of spells leap from the man's wand.

Harry glares at his godfather as he avoids the first volley of curses, only to be struck on the calf by a stinging hex in the second volley. While Sirius may act childishly outside training, the excitable uncle Harry always wished for, he is all business when teaching. And his temper, always on a short fuse since Azkaban, has been tested today. Several days of intense training, stopping only for injury, meals, sleep, study, and interminable time-turner spin-backs, and Harry still hasn't mastered silent casting. Judging by Sirius's blunt comments, he hasn't mastered anything yet. Frustration is showing. Both teacher's and student's nerves are frayed.

"_Rictumsempra."_ Harry lurches to the right to avoid the hex. "_Incarcerus_," Sirius intones lazily. The spell strikes Harry mid-thigh. He collapses, bound magically by conjured ropes.

Sirius turns his back to the immobilized boy and walks slowly across the Room of Requirement, configured as a dueling chamber, toward the observer by the door.

"Albus," he says, shaking his head, "I just don't know what to say. The kid's got potential, that's for sure. Hell, I've never seen a thirteen year old who could put so much juice into his spells--he's got more in the tank now than his old man ever did. But something's wrong. It's like he's got some kind of block." Sirius doesn't bother lowering his voice or hiding his displeasure. Harry has heard it all, in the last hour no less.

The Headmaster draws a privacy dome about the two men. "'Tough love,' Mr. Black?" The lanky, dark-haired man glares at the other man. "Don't count Mr. Potter out just yet," the Headmaster says with a twinkling eye, "I am quite certain that he will yet surprise us all. Why, Mr. Lupin speaks highly of his progress of late."

"Albus, this isn't just learning a few runes!" He hesitates. "Look, it's elementary dueling, the kind of thing that, when I taught at the Academy, we expect them to know going in. We haven't even started on basic tactics. He's far behind where I thought I could get him by now. I mean, you said he was good and he's James's and Lily's kid, so I sort of expected something special, but if Harry were to face a real Death Eater..." Sirius shivers.

"And that's why you are here," the headmaster interrupts, taking a moment to gaze across the well-lit room to his trussed charge, "to inoculate him from contracting an acute case of death. I know I impressed upon you the urgency of bringing Harry quickly to an acceptable level of skill, but we must also be realistic. As much as it pains me to say, my staff and I have been remiss. Harry has not had especially sound preparation and he was completely ignorant of magic when he arrived. I'm afraid we are reaping what we've sown."

Sirius scratches his jaw, which is darkened with black stubble. "Albus, I love the kid like a son. Hell, he _is_ my son in every way that matters. But I just don't see why you're in such a hurry to take him on. Probably over a dozen kids in this place are better prepared than he is. And from what I remember, that Weasley boy--what's his name, Bill--was extremely sharp and fairly powerful as well. I'm just not sure Harry is a safe bet for you to take on just yet." The headmaster fixes Sirius with a stare. "Okay, fine. I'll let it drop... for now. You wanted a status report? Dueling-wise, as you saw, his aim is crap, with little improvement over the last week..."

The Headmaster raises an eyebrow. "Sirius, I understand your frustration at the constraints on your movement after your recent incarceration. Are you quite certain you aren't commuting this anxiety onto your training with Harry?"

Sirius ignores the barb and continues, "His casting speed is variable and the power he puts behind his spells is all over the map. He's quick, but that's not enough. Not for where I want him to be.

"And, as you know, he completely lacks the potential for animagus transformation--I guess he's Lily's kid after all. Whatever tie he has to his form, if he even has one, is weak and would probably take forever to learn, just like with Peter. I don't think it's worth trying to climb that mountain now." He pauses and then speaks in a low tone, his hands going into the pockets of plain, midnight blue robes, robes the color of his eyes. "I just wonder if you aren't wasting your time with him. If it weren't for the prophesy..."

Sirius swallows as a wand jabs him in the throat.

"I see that Harry has learned to cast silently after all, Mr. Black. Please, carry on with your lesson." The headmaster turns towards the door and, with a hint of a smile, makes his egress.

* * *

The elderly man swirls his drink in a small crystal goblet and eyes its warm, brown color appreciatively. "Lormin, _mon apprenti_? I _did _train you well." He sips his cognac, a gift form his companion, and turns milky grey eyes toward the man, a middle-aged, dark-haired wizard of medium height, with chiseled features and a neatly trimmed beard.

"Of course, Chevalier" He bows formally to the short, older man bent with age. "This is a matter of some urgency. I asked for your council because my contacts tell me that _le_ _Voleur_ intends to bring someone into his fold. We can only assume that he will teach him in the ways."

The elder man coughs roughly. "He does, does he? Tell me more of this protegé, Faucon." He punctuates his statement with a slap of his hand upon a highly polished table of black walnut.

"We do not yet know his identity, but we will soon. I can tell you that he has sought unique accommodations that suggest he intends to indenture a child. This itself is remarkable." He crosses his arms and steps toward one of the high glass windows of the chateau. The leaden glass frames a staggeringly beautiful, rugged, alpine vista.

The elder scoffs loudly, which triggers a violent coughing episode. "He risks much with this choice. I am curious what child could inspire such confidence? What do we know of the boy?"

"If I may, Chevalier, I have endeavored to learn more. I know that _le Voleur_ will stay on at that school, Hogwarts, so it is logical to assume that he will keep the boy close to monitor his _amélioration_. While we have no agents within, we will soon. Through our efforts, the Tri-Wizard Tournament is being competed next year, an event which will afford us access to grounds and boy both."

"Indeed. Find out what you can, Faucon. We must deal with this threat while we can."

* * *

_Author's Note: This piece of fiction has been written to completion and it spans seventeen chapters and roughly 75k words. The final draft is being beta- and proof-read and critiqued before its posting. I intend to submit on the order of one chapter per week for the next several weeks. Barring the unlikelihood of author death, I assure you that this story will not be abandoned. _

_I wish to thank those who helped me with the process of writing this, my first novel-length effort. ParseltonguePhoenix, Methene, and Fenraellis read an early draft of this story and their sage comments improved this work significantly. They are to be credited with what works in this story. (What doesn't is my own damned fault!) _

_ParseltonguePhoenix and Fenraellis both gave careful beta reads of the complete work, for which I am extremely grateful. The former also got on my case to finish this, so he is to thank for its being available now and not months from now. _

_Also, I wish to acknowledge the crew at DLP for critical comments on the draft and for the inspiration (I'm looking at you, Methene) to attempt a Harry/Fleur story._

_I borrowed the idea for more than three Tri-Wizard tasks (as well as a line in this work) from jbern's excellent _The Lie I Lived,_ a masterpiece-in-the-making that I strongly encourage everyone to read. The Rosicrucians, the Order of the Rosy Cross, and their historical ties to alchemy were lifted shamelessly from Umberto Eco's _Foucalt's Pendulum_. Eco rocks._

_As always, reviews and feedback are most welcome. _


	2. Weasley Reunion

Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

My thanks go to beta readers ParseltonguePhoenix and Fenraellis. And to the crew at DLP for their valuable criticism.

* * *

CHAPTER 2

Weasley Reunion

* * *

"You made it, mate! But you're late--what happened?"

"Hi Ron. I didn't think I'd get here--Al-, er Professor Dumbledore was called away at the last minute while we were at the Ministry. I didn't know if I could Floo, so I had to use, um, another way to get here. I'm really sorry about taking so long." Harry smiles at his best friend, who is wearing a Chudley Cannons jersey in shockingly vibrant orange. The color clashes dreadfully with his forest green pants and Harry wonders whether his best friend is color blind.

"Don't worry, Harry, just come in. Everyone's been waiting to see you."

"Harry!" Hermione squeals and envelops him in a tight, lingering hug, her bushy hair tickling his face. "You've grown, a lot!" Harry can't help but notice that Hermione has also matured and the haggardness, from the stress of her last term when she took double the normal course load, has been replaced with a healthy, tanned glow. She steps back and her brown eyes appraise him, her hands lingering on his chest. Harry quirks an eyebrow and offers a roguish grin, a subtle technique he learned from his godfather. Her breath catches. "I like what I see," she whispers unexpectedly, blushing, though loudly enough for Harry to notice Ron turning red and staring at the floor.

"Thanks, Hermione. It's good to see you too. And, before you say it, you'll be happy to know that I've been working hard this summer." He gives her a mischievous wink. "Who knows, I might even give you a run for your money in classes next year..." The witch blushes further.

Ron's face reddens as he watches the exchange. "Let's get your bag upstairs, mate, and then go get something to eat." Harry shoulders his duffle and follows his friend up the stairs to his room. As they pass the landing to Ginny's room, the door opens and a cinnamon-haired girl stops short.

"Oh! Harry!" Ginny's brown eyes meet Harry's.

"Hi Ginny." Harry flashes her a brilliant smile. For some reason he can't quite place, he had been looking forward to seeing Ron's sister again, though her look of discomfort at seeing him makes him wonder why.

"Uh, hi, uh..." She blushes sheepishly, looking downward, and steps backwards to retreat into her room. Harry is left standing at the landing, somewhat disappointed. _When did she get so young looking? Merlin, she's almost thirteen, but around me, she still acts like she did when she was ten. _

Ron calls down the stairs. "Come on Harry, let's go. I'm starved!"

Harry drops his bag in Ron's room and two descend. Hermione meets them at the bottom of the stairs, arms akimbo. "Harry, just how did you get here?"

"I've got my ways, Hermione. Let's leave it at that." He tries the Sirius-coached smile again, but this time it doesn't seem to work--Hermione has no intention of leaving the subject.

"Well, I didn't hear any sounds of Apparition, so you couldn't have side-along Apparated with someone--that's always loud since you can't mask the sound of the passenger. You could have arrived off the grounds and walked up here. But then we would have noticed your approach, unless you were wearing your invisibility cloak. But why do that here at the Burrow? You obviously didn't Floo. Did someone make you a portkey?"

Harry sighs. He had hoped to defer this discussion until later, but he opts for honesty over evasion. "No, Hermione, I Apparated to the doorway, and I've learned to avoid making much noise when I do it." He shivers as he recalls the dreadful aches in his bones after long Apparition practices at the Shrieking Shack, the two grinning Marauders not letting up until his arrivals and departures were nearly flawless. She opens her mouth to comment, but Harry beats her, "And no, I won't get in trouble since I've got permission from the Minister to do magic during the holiday."

Hermione looks at Harry with admiration and something new... a trace of desire? "Bloody hell, Harry! How'd you manage to learn to Apparate?" Ron sputters. The look on his face is a mix of awe and envy, though too much of the latter for Harry's comfort.

"Language, Ron! But how did you... Oh my! You have an Apparition license too, don't you!" she squeals, "How? I thought you couldn't sit the exam until you're seventeen?" Her hands return to her hips. "And just when did you learn to Apparate? It's only been a few weeks since we left school, and I _know_ you couldn't do it then..."

"Hermione, calm down. As I said, I've been very busy this summer, but I'm not allowed to go into detail. I'll tell you what I can after dinner, okay? I'm starved. My license is only about an hour old--that's one of the things I was doing at the Ministry today with the Headmaster. As for how I learned, let's just say that I had good teachers..."

"You're barmy, mate. Though I'd love to be able to do that stuff too, I can't believe you're working so hard out of school. Come! Eat first, then talk!" Ron leads them into the dining room as Hermione grumbles something about "caveman manners."

* * *

Dinner at the Burrow is, as always, lively and relaxed, the polar opposite of the formal dinners that Harry and the Headmaster have been sharing as part of Harry's etiquette training. Molly's food is excellent, if laden with calories. Hermione and all of the Weasley family, save Bill and Charlie, are here and Harry realizes how much he has missed the "controlled chaos," with food passed left, right, and across the table. Molly beams at Harry as she spoons second helpings of meat loaf and buttered, braised turnips onto his plate. "Harry, dear, how are the muggles treating you this summer? Are you getting enough to eat?"

Harry almost starts to answer the woman with his trademark stammer, "Um...," a habit that his mentor has been trying to break him of. Instead, he pauses, considers his words, and says, "I'm not actually staying with my aunt and uncle anymore this holiday, Mrs. Weasley. Professor Dumbledore found somewhere else for me to stay."

She smiles at him. "Well, I certainly understand, with that _awful_ Sirius Black still on the loose. I still can't believe they never caught him! Where are you staying, dear?" Everyone at the table turns toward Harry, whose jaw tenses.

"Hogwarts. I've been doing quite a lot of independent study, as I was telling Ron and Hermione." Harry takes a deep breath and addresses the room, "And, despite what you've heard or read about him, my godfather, Sirius Black, is an honorable man who is completely innocent. He spent twelve years in Azkaban because his former friend, Peter Pettigrew, betrayed my parents to Voldemort and set him up. Peter was the real traitor, not Sirius." Harry notices that his fist is clenched and that his food is decidedly less appetizing now. An uncomfortable silence ensues, broken only by the clinking of silverware as the family starts to eat again. Harry sighs, "Sorry."

"No need to be, Harry. We understand." Arthur Weasley smiles at him. "Speaking of Albus and happier things, I hope, I heard some interesting news today at the Ministry." He fixes Harry with an appraising look. "Professor Dumbledore formally accepted an apprentice, an underage wizard at that. It should be in the _Daily Prophet_ tomorrow."

The table erupts in surprise and Ron knocks his glass of pumpkin juice onto Hermione's lap. She starts and then sighs heavily as Molly vanishes the spilled drink with a whispered, "_evanesco_." Arthur raises his voice to overcome the din. "What I know is that Albus filed the paperwork and I hear that his apprentice received licenses for underage magic and Apparition." He winks at Harry.

"That's amazing," Hermione interrupts. "Whoever it is must be a _really_ powerful witch or wizard. Professor Dumbledore has never... Harry!" She squeals his name. All eyes turn toward her, then to Harry, who blushes at the attention. Hermione stands and runs to him, hugging him around the shoulders a second time. Catching a whiff of Hermione's floral perfume and feeling her upper body pressed against his in the embrace, Harry can't help but notice that Hermione is turning into a fetching young woman.

"Uh, um, yeah," he says, inwardly wincing at the stammer, as he pulls back from her embrace. "You see, Albus, I mean Professor Dumbledore, made me his apprentice. I don't understand what it means yet, but we had to sign a bunch of documents today at the Ministry to make it official and I had to swear a wizard's oath. This is what I've been doing this summer and it's where I learned to Apparate, Hermione."

Harry notices the increasingly stormy look on Ron's face. "It's also why I can't come to stay at the Burrow, mate, like we had planned. Sorry about that--Quidditch and your mum's cooking would have been brilliant." Hoping to forestall an eruption, he shrugs and smiles weakly at his best friend.

"Bloody unbelievable," he spits, standing abruptly and knocking his wooden chair backward onto the weathered pine floor. "Is there anything you _don't_ have?" The last is delivered in a scathing tone to Hermione, who reddens, noticing that her hands linger on Harry's shoulders, physical contact she hadn't seemed especially willing to break. Ron pushes past his twin brothers and stomps out of the dining room and up the stairs. A few seconds later a door slams.

"Ronald Billius Weasley, you will watch your language!" Mrs. Weasley yells after him. She turns to Harry and pats his arm. "Harry, dear, this really is wonderful news. I'm sure Ron is happy for you in his own way. He's just a bit surprised and it'll take some time for it all to sink in."

"I don't really understand what the big deal is, but everyone's treating this like it is." Harry says with a sigh. "It looks like at first I'll just be taking regular Hogwarts classes during the year, but with a few extra sessions with Albus and my other tutors."

"Harry, Ron is just a little jealous," Arthur opines, glancing with amusement at the blushing Hermione as she returns to her seat. "An apprenticeship with a wizard of Albus's stature is extraordinary. I don't really understand what all is involved, since it's not my department, but I understand it's a big deal because your bond will remain in place until your magical power and talent approach his. Only then will the magic recognize your training as being done and the spell will fade. As you can imagine, for someone like Albus, this could take years, maybe even decades. He's putting a lot of faith in you. It's almost unheard of for an apprenticeship to be offered to an underage wizard who still hasn't reached magical maturity--if your power doesn't eventually grow to be comparable to Albus's, he'd be essentially committing to you for the remainder of his life."

"Unless it's already there," Hermione whispers to herself.

Molly smiles at Harry. "What it means, Harry, is that the headmaster has as much as hand-picked you as his successor, the _next_ Albus Dumbledore."

Harry shivers, thinking that he'd prefer to be the first Harry Potter. "I thought he was barmy before, but now I know it for sure." He shakes his head. "Why not just offer me extra tutoring without the risk of this bond? And how does he know I'll even have a fraction of his power?"

"Remember history of magic last year, Harry?" Hermione adopts her trademarked lecture tone, "There are three basic functions of apprenticeship..."

"Spare me please, Hermione. I've read up on apprenticeship bonds already." Harry regrets interrupting his friend, but he knows that he needs to cut short her lecture if anything else is to be discussed.

She nods, mollified. Mrs. Weasley starts to serve pudding and coffee.

"Harry," Hermione says, quietly, "I think I know why the headmaster believes you are powerful. Remember what happened at the end of the term last year?"

Harry snorts, "Lots of things happened last year. You'll have to be a bit more specific."

"Okay." She crosses her arms. "Remember the full moon?"

Harry pauses for a moment. "Oh, you mean the thing with the dementors?"

Molly gasps. "You faced dementors last year?"

"Several times, but I learned to fight them off." Molly pales as she places her hand over her heart. Harry notices the strange looks he's getting from the Weasleys and becomes defensive, "Look, if I hadn't done something, they were going to give Sirius and me the kiss and then they would have gone after Hermione. I did what I had to do, what anyone would have done in my place. They attacked us--it's not like we went out looking for them!"

"Harry, how do you fight them off?" Ginny asks meekly from her spot at the corner of the table, the only words the ginger-haired girl has said all meal.

"_Patronus _charm."

Arthur blanches. "A _corporeal_ _patronus_, Harry?" Harry nods as both twins emit low whistles. "I'm almost afraid to ask, but how many dementors were there?"

"A hundred or so. All of them, I think."

Molly collapses into her chair, speechless.

* * *

Hermione approaches Harry, who has been alone in the sitting room since dinner. Though it is summer, a small fire burns in the flagstone fireplace for Floo communication and travel, its heat magically suppressed, and Harry stares at the flames from his favorite spot on the horsehair couch opposite. At his feet is his weathered canvas duffle, muggle military surplus, recovered from Ron's room while the boy had used the lavatory. Harry's plans to stay the night have been dashed by the hostility of the youngest Weasley son.

"Harry, you must tell me all about your training. I want to know what you're learning. It must be fascinating to be taught by Professor Dumbledore himself--he's probably the most accomplished wizard in the world. I do hope you are not wasting his time by slacking off like you usually do. And who are these tutors you talked about?"

Hermione's tone is brisk and breezy and Harry notes that his friend is sitting closer to him than she normally does, which makes him a bit uneasy. Recalling some of his recent lessons with Albus, he studies her body language and applies a bit of passive Legilimencyall that he can manage at this early stage of his training. He senses pride and a hint of attraction, cut with an undercurrent of competitiveness and resentment.

After years of friendship, he feels he knows Hermione as well as anyone, and he tries to curb some of the latter. He holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Hermione, trust me. I'm working very hard--harder than you would believe. I hope you don't mind my saying, but you're my role model." He offers the witch a genuine smile, which she returns, blushing. "I've just got so much to make up and I've never had the talent for remembering details that you have. Please understand that Albus doesn't want me to share specifics of what I'm learning, but I think I'm allowed to tell you some of the general topics.

"As for my tutors, I'm learning defense from Remus--I hired him as a private tutor—and advanced charms from Flitwick." Harry's voice drops to a low whisper, "I'm also learning dueling and fighting tactics from Sirius. Before you start, in our lessons he leaves the 'Marauder' at the door. He's brilliant, serious as a stroke, and very, very driven, like a man possessed. Did you know he used to be a dueling instructor before, well..." He pauses. "Hermione, I trust you, but you can't share that I'm working with him with anyone. I mean it, not even Ron." Harry's eyes dart toward the stairs. "Especially not with how he's handling all this."

Harry flashes her a cheeky smile, "I'm also learning arithmancy from Professor Vector. Dirivana is really good at explaining things--I can see why you like her class so much, Hermione."

"Wait--you're learning arithmancy? And since when are you on a first names basis with the professors, Harry?" She scowls at him. _ There's that resentment again_.

"Perks of the position, Hermione, though I think you'll find that if you get to know your professors socially, most of them would offer use of their familiar names. And yes, I'll be joining your class next year. Runes too. I'm dumping divination though--you were right, by the way. Complete rubbish of a course."

"Ancient runes?"

He nods. "Remus is helping me catch up, though I may ask to borrow your notes later this summer--Professor Abdulah said that you were--what were his words again--'extraordinarily gifted.'" She smiles at the flattery. "Albus needed me to learn it, so there you go. He didn't say why, but I'm not going to question him. He was firm about it. He's really busy now though, so lately I've been catching up with my tutors. Something is going on at Hogwarts next year that has him traveling a lot and I've only seen him a few times. He's been teaching me a bit about the theory of magic, stuff I never knew, but that most witches and wizards know instinctively or, like you, learn before they get to Hogwarts."

They chat amicably about a few other things and then Harry grabs his duffle from the floor. "Hermione, I've got to go back now. Thanks for coming here to see me. And you take care of Ron, okay?" He winks at her and gently busses her cheek. "He fancies you, you know." Harry Disapparates, leaving behind a quiet "pop" and a stunned witch.

* * *

"_Ma petite_, I have a trifling request, a _bagatelle,_ for your training." Fleur's father, Gerard, eyes her coolly as she is pulled from her reverie in the Beauxbatons library before an open window. The room is comfortable, warm in tone, with a high, arched ceiling and cherry panelling and pastoral paintings on the walls. A view of the Mediterranean can be seen out the windows.

"Father, you startled me. What do you ask of me?" She looks up from her books to the elegantly dressed man, the finery of his deep burgundy robes and the family crest on his breast suggesting that he has come from a meeting with government officials.

"Tomorrow you shall dine with Madame Maxime and the Headmaster of Hogwarts in Scotland, Albus Dumbledore. Do you know of this man?"

"_Oui_, of course, father. He defeated Monsieur Grindelwald. Handily, if the histories are to be believed."

"They are indeed. Child, I warn you, do not relax in this man's presence. Rather, exercise extreme caution. His mastery of Legilimency is legend, so you must guard your thoughts well and avoid looking into his eyes." She looks at him, confused. "The reason I have approached you is that I have discovered that he will be accompanied by his new apprentice, a Mr. Harry Potter." He places a dossier onto the table before her.

She opens it and starts to read. "_Le survivant_, the Boy-Who-Lived, is Dumbledore's apprentice? But he is younger than I!"

"Yes, my child. And he is your mark, your _but_. I would know what I can of him, his history, his loyalties, his _philosophie_. Please acquaint yourself with boy, but do so discretely. We shall review your conversation afterward."

"_Oui, _of course, father."

* * *

"Okay Harry--nice evasion there by the way--pay attention to your wand technique in your return volley... here!" Sirius makes a twisting gesture with his wand and the scene pauses. Harry sees himself caught in the act of casting a blasting spell at his godfather. The two are standing on a large, high ceilinged room with white walls and a floor of red mats, the standard training room provided by the Room of Requirement for Harry's lessons in magical and physical dueling. Harry sighs, noticing that his footwork is all wrong, as is his posture. His pensieve-self is wearing cream-colored practice robes, heavily padded to reduce injury. Even with the padding, Harry can see that his right shoulder is drooped too low.

"You have to tighten your grip and then at the end flick upwards with a hint of a rightward curl. Like this..." Sirius demonstrates the wand motions for a flawless _confringo_ blasting curse. "The curl will help with your aim, though, strictly speaking, with an area spell like _confringo,_ aim isn't as critical as it is for curses like _diffindo_. It doesn't matter, though--you should _always_ properly aim your spells. I can't stress that enough." He flicks his wand a couple of times and the scene slowly evolves. Harry notices that his wand motion is very sloppy.

"Now compare what I just did with the monkey shit you threw at me before--if you hadn't overdriven the spell so much, I doubt anything would have even come out of your wand. I didn't believe it when he told me, but Remus had you pegged: You overcharge every bloody thing you cast, kiddo. I'm surprised you haven't fried your wand yet with all the unfocused power you send through it. What's it got for a core?"

"Fawkes's feather. I did hit you though," Harry counters mischievously. It's the first time he's managed to land a spell on his godfather and he can't resist the chance to needle him a bit.

Sirius grins for a moment and then frowns as he recovers his instructor persona. "That's immaterial, Harry. Watch again. Here's how it should be." He repeats the wand motion, "...and here's your sloppy shite." He rewinds the pensieve memory and Harry watches himself and winces. The two leave the training pensieve, a device specifically configured to facilitate replay and analysis of duels. Sirius observes critically as Harry repeats the wand motions of the curse with a conjured facsimile of his wand. He moves slowly at first and then progressively more rapidly, eventually reaching full speed.

After several minutes and hundreds of repetitions, Sirius announces with a smile, "Finally. Looks like you've got it--now do it two hundred more times. And I want you aiming left and right too, not just straight ahead. Death Eaters aren't known for going full frontal. Well, except for Bella, but that's a story for another day..." He winks at Harry, who misses the humor.

After several more minutes, Sirius beckons Harry to join him on a conjured sofa, maroon corduroy, and Harry obliges, collapsing exhausted onto the cushions. He smiles at the boy. "Harry, you're doing much better now." His demeanor has become more amiable lately as positive experiences have begun to supplant memories of imprisonment and refuge.

"You know, power can be a crutch, Harry. Up to now, you've been able to just 'will' spells into being, so you haven't had to pay attention to proper form. A good defense teacher would have caught this and corrected it, but I can't fault you for the rubbish Albus hired." He winks at Remus, who has just entered the room.

"Hey now, I resemble that remark. In my defense, Harry's third year curriculum was mostly dark creatures, so I didn't have much time to work on his technique." The werewolf conjures a wooden chair and sits facing the two. "Besides," he laughs, dropping the prim tone, "by then, Harry's technique was such rubbish, I wouldn't have known where to start."

Sirius ruffles his godson's hair, which earns him a scowl from the boy. "Harry, this ends here. Perfection needs to be second nature or else you'll be blowing all your power for no gain. Ever play the muggle sport, golf?"

"Sort of. Vernon used to have me caddy for him and his clients. I did get to hit balls on the range, though, while they drank pints in the clubhouse."

"Then you'll see my point. Out on the links, you could have all the physical strength in the world, but if your form is shite, your control will be too and the ball won't go far or end up anywhere close to where you aimed it. Same with spells. If we can just get your form to where it doesn't embarrass us, then when you finally _do_ put your power behind your spells..."

"Tiger Woods," Harry says, absently.

"Who?"

Remus smiles wryly. "He's a famous muggle golf prodigy who is expected to go pro soon and win everything in sight. Harry's analogy is apt, Sirius." He turns toward Harry. "If you could perfect your form like Tiger Woods has his swing, you'd be a force to be reckoned with."

Sirius stands and vanishes the sofa, which causes Harry to drop onto the floor with a thud and a groan. "Gentlemen (and Remus), it looks like my time is up. Good show today, kiddo. You're getting it, finally. Though I was starting to wonder there for awhile..." He smirks at Harry.

"Thanks," Harry replies sarcastically at the rare praise and makes an obscene gesture to his godfather. "Perch and rotate, Messer Padfoot." He smirks.

"Oi," Sirius says with a short laugh as he snatches the pensieve from the table. "I'm going to go catch up with your double and work with him on that other, 'Most Secret' project we have going..." He winks and leaves through a side door to enter another chamber within the Room of Requirement.

Remus looks quizzically at Harry and then breaks into a knowing smile.

"Sirius is giving you lessons on dealing with the fairer sex?" Harry nods with a grin. "Merlin, then you really _will_ be a force to be reckoned with."

* * *

"Olympe, it is most pleasant to see you again. You are well?" The Headmistress beams at Professor Dumbledore and leans down so that he can kiss her on each cheek. "May I introduce you to my apprentice Mr. Harry Potter."

"_Oui_, Monsieur Potter, _le Survivant, _it is an honor to meet you." She offers a large, meaty hand to Harry, who kisses it dutifully. She towers over him by more than a meter, yet she carries herself with surprising grace. "Let me introduce you to my _adjoint_, Deputy Headmistress Madame Corrida and my student, Mademoiselle Fleur Delacour." She continues, airily, "Mr. Potter, Mademoiselle Delacour is a most exceptional witch in her final year of study at Beauxbatons."

Harry, upon making eye contact with the witch, inhales sharply as an unfamiliar warmth envelops him. Her blue eyes are warm, radiant, and her soft lips curl upward in a slight smile. Her head is canted very slightly, as if in amusement or consideration of him. She wears formal robes of shear silver that discretely accentuate a lithe, statuesque body. He has never seen such a beguiling woman, one whose delicate features imprint themselves so profoundly on his mind, her very presence, a breathless _patronus_ memory.

"Um... uh..." Harry gapes for a moment and then swallows heavily and closes his eyes. "Harry, my boy," Sirius's voice barks in his mind, "Remember: attitude and composure. No bird is inaccessible, some just fly higher than others..." A few other pithy "Siriusisms," as he and Remus call them, come to mind, but none seem even remotely appropriate.

He opts instead to analyze, taking a page from his other Marauder-turned-mentor's book. _She's beautiful, yes, but why do I feel this way? I've seen beautiful women before--Blaise, Katie, the Patil twins--even Ginny, when she doesn't flee like I'm an Inferius. Why is this witch so special? It's almost like she's a... veela... Oh!" _ Harry takes a deep breath and opens his eyes slowly. The heady sensation he had felt earlier dissipates somewhat and he sees before him merely a stunningly gorgeous young woman, mortally beautiful, not an apotheosis of the sublime.

Gathering his courage, he addresses her, "I, uh, I am honored to make your acquaintance, Miss Delacour... Please, uh, call me Harry." He swallows heavily, marshaling his daring, "The beauty of your kind is, um, legend, yet you credit them in a way that the stories cannot." Harry blushes heavily. _Oh, really suave there--you're stammering like an idiot_. He hopes the line didn't come out nearly as badly as it sounded to him while delivering it. He bows formally, takes her proffered, petite hand in his, and gives it a gentle kiss. Her smile widens and Harry silently thanks his godfather for his unorthodox and, at times, highly embarrassing lessons.

"_Merci_, 'Arry. You are too kind. Call me Fleur," she curtseys.

* * *

"Do you have any family, Fleur?" Harry finds the witch's company at dinner to be more relaxed than their initial meeting. After an initial awkwardness, their conversation has flowed freely and they share an unexpected rapport.

"_Oui,_ My parents, of course, and my little sister, Gabrielle." The beautiful witch tells him of her father, Gerard, an undersecretary in the French Ministry and an ambitious politico. Her mother, Sandrine, is an accomplished society matron and heiress of a large fortune. Fleur's grandmother, a full veela, married into wealth just before Grindelwald's rise and the wizarding war the muggles know as World War II.

As the witch starts to regale Harry with the many virtues of her younger sister, Harry's attention wanders to the meal and their other company. The food is excellent, if rich. The veal is prepared with a red wine and truffle sauce, the asparagus, cooked to perfection.

Harry notices a telltale buzzing sound, as Albus, Madame Maxime, and Madame Corrida speak quietly with one another behind amild audial obscuring charm that makes it impossible for him to listen in on their conversation.

"What about you, Harry?" His attention returns to the witch in front of him. "Tell me of your family?" Harry notices that he loves the sound of his given name in her patois, which sounds like "'Arry".

Fleur's interest in him seems genuine. He doesn't entirely trust her, but he doesn't distrust her either. "I'm sorry, Fleur, but it's not a very happy story, perhaps too distressing for dinner conversation. Are you sure you wish to hear it? You probably know most of it already..."

Fleur raises her hands to her mouth as she realizes the indelicacy of what she has asked. "I'm so sorry, Harry, I forgot. Please forgive me, I am so insensitive..."

"There is nothing to forgive, Fleur." There is a long silence between them and he feels awkward at her chagrin. He takes a deep breath, "I'll tell you--if you would like to hear, that is." She nods meekly, not quite meeting his eyes. "As you know, my parents were slain by Voldemort when I was a baby." She shudders at the name and the others at the table turn to stare at Harry. "Somehow I managed to survive the killing curse, but everyone's heard about that. Nobody really knows how it happened.

"Then I was given to live with my aunt and uncle, my only surviving relatives, but... I wasn't really very happy there." Harry stares at his wine goblet, barely noticing that the table has drawn quiet and all have turned their attention to the now quiet boy. His tone is flat, devoid of emotion. He buries thoughts of the truth, of how he was abused in his youth, and sets his goblet back onto the table. "The happiest day of my life was when I learned I was a wizard and could leave them."

He glances at his plate, the half-eaten food no longer holding as much appeal for him. _Why is appetite so tied to emotions?_ "The second happiest day was this summer, when Albus asked me to be his apprentice. It meant I could instead return to my real home, Hogwarts."

"Harry," the Headmaster cautions and gives him a slight, almost imperceptible shake of the head. Harry knows that he is being indiscrete--his treatment by his relatives is not common knowledge and could be politically damaging to the Headmaster and others if it were made public.

Harry nods at the Headmaster and smiles affectedly at the adults, who rejoin their discussion. After taking a sip of wine, he turns to his enchanting companion. "I'm fourteen years old, Fleur, and I've met Voldemort four times, escaping by pure luck, nothing more. I'm famous, but I hate my fame because of its terrible cost." He smiles grimly. "I don't need to be a seer to know what, or more importantly, who I'll find in my future...

"So tell me more of Gabrielle..." He adroitly changes the subject to happier things.


	3. La Côte d'Azur and the Hogwarts Express

Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

My thanks go to beta readers ParseltonguePhoenix and Fenraellis and to the crew at DLP for their critical comments.

* * *

CHAPTER 3

_La Côte d'Azur _and the Hogwarts Express

* * *

Harry knocks wearily on the front door of the Burrow, his head still spinning from the International Portkey journey from France. The ramshackle manse is surprisingly silent on the eve of the Quidditch World Cup. He had expected to find Ron, the other Weasley males, and Ginny glued to the wireless to listen to the preliminaries. He waves his wand over the center of the door in a complex pattern to disable the locking wards, a technique taught to him last month by the eldest Weasley, and lets himself into the house. Pinching a butterbeer from the refrigerator, he waits on the horsehair couch in the study in front of an empty fire grate. He sips the butterbeer and rolls the sweet and tangy liquid over his tongue before swallowing. After several minutes, he closes his eyes for a nap.

A flurry of feathers and bumps about his head awakens him. The room is dark--apparently he had slept through the afternoon--and he spies Pigwidgeon, Ron's diminutive owl, fluttering about. With seeker reflexes, he snatches the owl from the air and unties the two letters affixed to its leg. He removes his wand from his pocket, casts a _lumos_, and begins to read.

_Harry,_

_I guess I forgot to tell you that dad got us tickets to the World Cup. Hermione and Dean are here and we got one of the upper boxes. It's brilliant! You should see the Irish Chasers, they move like they share one brain. I hope the Gryffindor chasers are watching, since they could learn so much. Viktor Krum is playing for Bulgaria. We watched him during warmups..._

Ron's letter continues on this vein for most of a page. Harry can't bring himself to care about the match anymore, so he skims through to the end. _He invited Dean_? Harry would have loved to have attended the Cup Finals with the only family he'd ever known, but tickets have been sold out for months. He probably would have been able to acquire, at insane markup, seats for himself and Remus from a reseller, but he had declined in order to spend the evening with the Weasleys before returning to school.

He unfolds the second letter, also addressed to him, but in Hermione's looping handwriting.

_Dear Harry,_

_Can you believe Ron? What a spectacular prat!_

_I just had a row with him because he didn't have the courtesy to inform you of the change in plans. Even though Ron said you were busy, he should tell you, at least, in case your plans change and you try to meet us at the Burrow. As you already heard from Ron, Mr. Weasley was given tickets at the last minute and he took the family, Dean and me. Ron and Dean seem to get on well. I like Dean, I guess, but he's not you. It's too bad you were so busy and couldn't come instead--I would have loved to catch up more, but I'm sure Professor Dumbledore had you doing something important and educational._

_The World Cup is amazing; I've never seen so many witches and wizards assembled in one place. There are rows of enchanted tents in a meadow in the middle of muggle England. Repelling and notice-me-not charms surround the fields, though the magical community is not exactly blending in. I just saw a wizard wearing a pink nightgown, necktie, and diving fins, of all things!. _

_I hope this letter finds you well. I miss you, Harry, and look forward to seeing you again. _

_Love, _

_Hermione_

Harry's heart sinks. _Change of plans? What plans? What's that about?_ He looks around for a scrap of parchment and finds none, so he scribbles his reply on the back of Ron's letter,

_To Ronald B. Weasley:_

_Thank you for your prompt missive. I hope you find the match enjoyable. Please convey my regards to your companions._

_Sincerely,_

_Harry J. Potter_

"Here, Pig. Take this to Ron. Peck him on the ear if you could."

* * *

"Zis way, Harry!" the veela calls over her shoulder, laughing musically, as she darts between a pair of rough, craggy stones. Harry tries to keep up as he scrambles down the winding path to the beach. Though he's been to Beauxbatons many times these past few weeks, accompanying the Headmaster on his frequent visits to the school, this is the first time he has gotten the chance to come to the beach. The sandy trail ahead is lined with tall grass and white and pink mediflores.

Passing the stones, he steps out onto an expanse of tan-grey sand and sees the deep, blue water up close for the first time. The surf is tame, with small waves rolling onto the shore. His companion stands before him with arms raised to the heavens, her white sun dress and platinum hair billowing in the gentle salt breeze. Fleur's eyes are impossibly blue with reflection of water and sky. Harry's heart stirs at the perfection of the moment.

"_La Côte d'Azur, c'est magnifique, non_?"

"_Oui_," he gasps. "It's amazing."

"Your first time to the French Riviera, Harry?" she asks playfully, stepping closer. He tenses slightly and forces himself to relax.

"My first time to any beach," he replies, embarrassed. He turns around and looks up the bluff from which they had come. The Beauxbatons castle stands above, majestic, slate and white marble. Oppressive beauty. Harry spots a rock nearby on which he sits facing the sea. He removes his shoes and socks and rolls the cuffs of his canvas trousers up. Fleur slips off her sandals and sits next to him.

"You've never been to the beach before, Harry?"

"No, my relatives didn't take me on holiday when I was young." He looks off at the horizon. "They sometimes left me with a neighbor, a squib, though I didn't know it at the time. I actually didn't know that I was magical until I received my invitation to Hogwarts."

"And the other times?" she asks, knowing the answer from her study of his dossier.

Harry shrugs. "I'm pretty good at looking after myself."

They sit in silence for a few minutes before Fleur breaks it. "It is a pity the irises are not in bloom."

Harry turns to look at the veela and he notices that she is biting her lower lip and that her eyebrows are slightly lowered, with a faint crease between them. He feels that he is being a poor guest and he says to her earnestly, "Thank you for bringing me here, Fleur. It's brilliant--I've never seen anything so beautiful."

The veela blushes under his gaze. "It's best to see Beauxbatons during summer. See? We have ze beach to ourselves." She dons a false smile and makes a sweeping gesture with her arm.

"Don't you get lonely?" he asks quietly.

She pauses for a long time, her smile fading to a memory. "I am always lonely, Harry. It is the nature of the veela for her to be alone." Her jaw tenses.

He nods. "I understand."

Fleur bites back a retort as she realizes that he probably does. The two sit in silence and watch the waves.

After several minutes, they stand and Fleur takes Harry's hand in hers. "Come, let us walk." A strong wind picks up, feathering Harry's hair and tousling hers. She clutches his arm and walks closely beside him, her strides matching his. The two squint into the gusting breeze as they step together into cool surf.

* * *

"Harry, it is time for us to commence the next phase of your training." The Headmaster walks to a circular table in the corner of his office and retrieves a tiny leather-bound tome from a small drawer beneath the edge of the table. Harry follows and stands at the shoulder of his mentor and watches as the Headmaster searches the ancient book, his gnarled, spotted hands gently turning yellowed, cracking leaves. He stops at a page dominated by a solitary, complex rune resembling knotted cords surrounding a disembodied eye. "This is the _visum_ rune, Harry. Have you seen it before?"

"No, sir."

"That does not surprise me. Few know of its existence, fewer still, its effect. This is the first rune I wish you to join, the glyph of seeing. When you can understand this rune properly, we will take steps for you to 'absorb it into your being,' so to speak." Harry looks confused. "I apologize. By 'understanding,' I mean, as the centaurs would say, '_erudintia,_' a thorough knowledge of something's true essence. 'Absorb it into your being' means just that--an _erudintia _of yourself would reveal the essence of this glyph. I regret that the English language has no proper way to describe the process." He pauses dramatically, bowing for effect. "You see, Harry, I am a Runescrive and I plan to teach you the art as well."

The Headmaster is amused that his momentous pronouncement has had little effect on his charge, who asks, "Albus, what is a Runescrive?"

"An ancient, secret form of magic that very few practice today. One that, because of your apprenticeship bond, you will find it impossible to discuss in detail to anyone, even the delightful Miss Granger. Teaching you this art is one of the reasons that I sought you as an apprentice--I believe that you shall require this power when you face Voldemort."

Harry mulls this over. "Is it the 'power he knows not?'"

"No," he says quickly. "Voldemort is also versed in the art, though not as fully as you in time. It will help you as you face him, but it is not the key to defeating him."

"How does it work?"

"Rather well, in fact." He chuckles at Harry's annoyed look and takes the time to pop a lemon drop into his mouth. "Think of glyphs such as this one as foci, similar to your wand in that they enable you to channel your magic into certain forms. The _visum_ rune is the simplest of the basic forms and it affords a natural affinity to magical sight. In time and with practice, it will allow you to sense certain types of magical auras and to see the invisible. This is the first of the runes that you will learn. Alas, like anything worthwhile, learning will be slow and take much effort." He clears his throat. "Especially so, as I must insist that you return to me your time turner. We cannot risk an adverse interaction between the different forms of magic."

Harry nods at his mentor and hands over his treasured device. The Headmaster places it within a side cabinet fashioned from dark wood and chants a quiet incantation to seal it. Harry sighs, wistfully. With the time turner and liberal use of the Room of Requirement, he had recovered more than a year of intensive training during the summer, a year spent as part of a dysfunctional family of him, Sirius, and Remus. A year that, though difficult, he will treasure for the rest of his life, short as it may be.

"So this _visum_ rune is how you can see through my invisibility cloak?"

"Yes," the older man chuckles, looking at Harry over the rims of his glasses, "though if I may, I could have merely charmed my spectacles to accomplish the same thing."

"What's involved with 'absorbing the rune into my being?' That sounds, well, weird."

"It requires first that you condition your mind and magic to accept the rune, not too difficult for a benign, neutral rune such as the _visum_. But it will require sessions of a special form of meditation that I will teach you and that will be aided substantially by our bond.

"As for the mechanics of 'absorbing into your being,' you use an athame, a sort of sharpened wand, to carve the rune onto your flesh and you imbue the rune with special ink that I will help you to prepare. The ingredients are rare, often quite expensive, and specific for each rune. You may not propagate this information, Harry, but preparation of the ink is the foremost purpose of the magical art of alchemy--all the 'lead to gold' claptrap was merely a side effect of some of the more exotic concoctions we alchemists discovered."

Harry nods, a bit overwhelmed by the deluge of information. "However, unless your godfather has corrupted you beyond what I would have expected, you should have ample financial means with which to secure the ingredients." He gives Harry an avuncular smile.

"Following an incantation and further meditation, you will experience the benefits of absorbing the rune. It is initially quite painful and the time required for adjustment varies with the wizard and depends on your affinity for this type of magic as well as the rune."

"Will it leave a scar? And what other kinds of runes are there?"

"Provided the process goes as planned, it won't scar, but it will leave a faint mark invisible to those who themselves do not bear the _visum_ rune or are insensitive to seeing magical auras. Even then, one needs a special charm to see many of them. I dare say you have more than your share of scars already, so I trust you won't miss not having a few more?"

Harry nods.

"As for your second question, that is not one I shall answer now. You will understand why in time. Suffice it to say that there are many runes and one must be exceedingly careful with what one absorbs. The more powerful the glyph, the more profound its effect on the bearer. Indeed, some change him utterly, rendering him a shade of his former self, subservient to powers beyond mortal control. Others bind his soul more securely than the tightest noose. You already know of one such mark, derived, albeit awkwardly, from one of our runes..."

_The Dark Mark._

* * *

Fleur divides the young girl's white-blonde mane into three bunches and starts to comb one of them. The two sit in tandem upon the ivory duvet that covers Gabrielle's bed. The fine comb catches in the knots.

"However did you get so many tangles?" she sniffs, annoyed, taking a more coarsely toothed comb from atop a light blue, lacquered bureau. Like all of the items in the Delacour chateau, the piece is refined, affluent, though not opulent. She starts working the snarls out of the younger girl's white-platinum hair.

"I had riding lessons today," Gabrielle says, innocently.

"Why did you not plait your hair? It will take ages to comb out properly!"

"Because, silly, you were going to be here and I knew you'd fix it for me." The diminutive veela smiles cheekily over her shoulder at her older sister. "And then mama would not leave us alone for as long."

Fleur sighs, fighting a smile.

Gabrielle smirks. "So, dear sister, tell me about _him_..."

"About whom?" Fleur temporizes, setting down her comb.

"Whoever it is you are thinking of..." She giggles. "You've met someone, I know. I overheard papa and mama speaking of it."

Fleur, scandalized, covers her mouth. "Shh, mother will hear." She lowers her voice, "I've met a boy." She sighs. "We are just friends, of course. Robért..."

"Is he rich?" she interrupts.

"Oh, he is quite wealthy, but he is the last of his family. I doubt mother would be interested in him--she would see no alliances to be gained, unlike with Dupuis family, who are so well connected politically..." She frowns in resignation.

"Where did you meet him?"

"At Beauxbatons. He is an English boy from 'ogwarts who has been visiting occasionally these past weeks. We have become friends. Maybe even good friends..." She beams at the younger girl. "The best part is that I can be myself around him."

The younger girl gasps, her eyes wide. "Really? He is not affected by you?"

"No, he is strong." She continues combing her sister's hair, her strokes gentle, yet firm. "We have shared many stories. He is a hero in a young man's body and, unlike my fiancé, he is most humble. The other day we visited the beach..." She sighs distantly. "I took his arm and we walked in the surf and talked for hours."

"Has he tried to kiss you?"

"He is a perfect gentleman. But what would you expect from Dumbledore's apprentice..." She smirks at her younger sister.

The young girl appears stunned as she puts the pieces together. "Harry Potter!" she exclaims. Then, with lowered voice, "You've befriended _le Survivant_?"

The elder witch pauses for a moment, then nods quickly. The younger girl giggles excitedly.

* * *

Harry walks down the aisle of the Hogwarts Express and peers into each compartment as he passes. Everywhere he sees excited faces ready to start another term, enthusiasm he doesn't himself share. He spots several acquaintances, but he feels detached, as if he were set apart, his long isolation and training and the emotion-deadening side effects of the runic joinings acting as barriers, much like the windowed doors of the compartments. When he reaches the last car, he spots Ron, Hermione, Dean, and Ginny sharing a compartment. With a hollow feeling in his chest, he knocks and slides the metal door open slowly.

"Hi guys." Harry says, feeling awkward, his memory of the World Cup evening still raw in his mind.

"Harry!" Hermione chirps, standing to give him a quick hug. "I didn't think you'd make it since you've been at Hogwarts already."

"I didn't either, but this morning Albus asked me to ride along in case something happens. And we both thought it'd be good if I caught up with you lot." He smiles at Hermione, who blushes, looking quickly at Ron and returning to her seat.

"Albus, eh Harry?" Dean says, stiffly. "First names with the Headmaster--I guess it's true then? You really are his apprentice?" He stands, shakes Harry's hand formally, and sits back down, his arm trailing across the top of the seat behind the youngest Weasley. The stocky boy is dressed in muggle clothing--black jeans, trainers, and a baggy shirt. He looks comfortable in his repose.

"Yeah. Lots of work. Anything beats living at the Dursleys, though."

Ginny looks at Harry briefly and smiles, blushing. "Hi Harry." Then she looks away as Dean's arm drapes around her shoulder and he makes a show of pulling her back to lean on him.

"All right there, Harry?" Dean says, with a hint of defiance.

"Yeah. Everything's good, Dean."

Dean gives Ginny a possessive look as he squeezes her shoulders. Ginny tries to avoid looking at Harry's face, so she settles for staring at his chest, then his legs, his waist, his groin, then blushing deeply and looking down at her hands, folded across her lap.

Dean interprets Harry's gaze and says proudly, "We've been going out since the World Cup. Did you go, Harry?" He tilts his head. "I didn't see you there, heard you had some VIP's to attend to."

"No, I had other plans. Some friends had invited me to their place to listen to the game on the wireless." He glances back at Ron, who is pointedly looking away. "But we didn't get together after all. So Ireland won, eh? I guess Seamus is going to be impossible now..." He forces a smile, the only one in the cabin, and he senses that it's time to leave. "Congratulations, Dean. Treat Ginny well--she's like a little sister to me, you know." He smiles again at the blushing redhead and turns toward her brother.

"Ron." Harry says, nodding at the red-haired boy in shabby clothing who is looking out the window.

Harry stands in the doorway for a moment of awkward silence. He notices Ron slide his right hand over Hermione's left as she turns to glare at her silent companion. "Right, then. I guess I'll be going. Be seeing you back at school."

"Goodbye, Potter." Ron spits as the door slides shut.

* * *

"Potter! Pathetic." The familiar drawl pulls Harry out of his reverie. Harry's companions in the compartment realize for the first time who their quiet companion is and their faces register the shock.

"Malfoy. Eloquent and self-referential, as usual."

"Sitting with first years?" He throws his head back and laughs haughtily. "This just keeps getting better. I take it everyone now sees you for the fraud that you are, apprentice to the old fool. What's he teaching you? Mudblood loving?"

"Please leave, Malfoy, before you hurt yourself. And take your... friends with you." Harry gestures to Crabbe and Goyle. He doesn't mind getting into a fight, but he doesn't wish to risk hurting the children in the cabin. Malfoy backs out of the compartment, but before he leaves, he sends a parting shot.

"I see the Weasel has finally got his mudblood princess. Jealous, Potter?"

"Not particularly," he lies.

"Right," he sneers, "Maybe one of the firsties will be blind enough to hold out for you. What about you?" He grabs ahold of a girl's chin and turns her face upward, assessing her as if she were a horse and not a person. "You'll be a looker in a couple of years. Better stay away from this trash though," he says, gesturing with his thumb toward Harry.

"I don't want to speak with you, Malfoy. Please close the door and raise the average IQ of the cabin."

"IQ?" he asks blankly.

"Forget it, it's over your head." One of the young students, a brown-haired muggleborn dressed in a navy skirt and white blouse, giggles, earning her a glare from the pale boy.

Draco Malfoy sneers, then slams the door shut. Harry turns his attention back to the book on his lap. After a minute, something doesn't feel quite right. He notices a faint glow of yellow in his peripheral vision through the cabin door window, the same glow he sees now when he looks at his invisibility cloak.

He stands and walks to the door, drawing his wand. Peering out, he sees nothing, but he can't chance leaving it, not with defenseless students about. He turns to a chubby, spectacled boy nearest the entrance and tells him, "After I leave, close and lock the door. Don't unlock it until we get to Hogwarts and the train is stopped. And stay away from the window." His intensity sobers the child, who nods nervously, like the others in the cabin.

He steps into the corridor and moves toward the fore of the train, where he had seen the flicker last.

A door slides open suddenly and Harry gasps as sharp pain explodes in his back. In an instant, he sees red spots in front of his eyes and he notices a metallic taste on his tongue. He whirls around, raises his wand, and aims into the center of the faint, yellow mass. Before he can get his curse off, his arm is deflected by a hard, open-handed punch to his wrist that snaps it cleanly.

Gritting his teeth, Harry grabs his wand with his left hand as he brings his shin up into the groin of his assailant. The cloaked man jabs again with the knife, this time piercing Harry's right side under his ribcage, the blade angling upward into his lung, and he gives the knife a painful twist. Harry makes a quick motion with his wand and whispers in his mind, _confringo_, his lungs lacking the ability to expel air. The mass before him explodes in a wet burst of red spray and shredded flesh. A mangled body, wrapped in a blood-soaked invisibility cloak, falls to the floor.

Harry feels lightheaded, his blood loss becoming acute. He clutches at the cord hanging from his neck as he slides down the wall to the floor and then onto his side. His wounds paint the walls and the window of the nearby compartment vibrant, arterial red. His head bounces on the floor in the midst of a spreading pool of blood--his or his assailant's, he cannot tell--as he whispers weakly the pass phrase for his emergency portkey, "Beam me up." Remus's idea of a joke. He loses consciousness before disappearing from the train.


	4. Unforgivable

Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

My thanks go to beta readers ParseltonguePhoenix and Fenraellis and to the crew at DLP for their critical comments.

* * *

CHAPTER 4

Unforgivable

* * *

Faucon rushes into the opulent study. "He failed, Chevalier. _Le Survivant _overcame poison and blade."

"What of our assassin?" The elderly man sits up straighter in his high-backed, leather chair, the heavy tome on his lap forgotten.

"Slain. Remarkable, but the boy somehow survived _actinus_ venom long enough to dispatch our man. When we recovered the body, the blood on the adept's hands wasn't his own, so we know he found his target. He was killed by a blasting curse to the head, based on the conditions we found the body. His deadman portkey recovered the body for us, but there wasn't much need--nothing remained above his shoulders to identify him by."

"Whom did we lose, Faucon."

"Michel Moreau-Dupuis." The middle-aged man blinks away for a brief instant.

Chevalier peers at his former apprentice for a long time before coughing roughly and clearing his gravelly throat. "Very well. Send another, Faucon, but do not underestimate the boy. It is clear that _le_ _Voleur_ is training him quickly in our ways. His detection and dispatch of our adept shows that he should be approached as highly dangerous. Tell your assassin to expect he has absorbed _visum _sight, _eukolos_ agility, and _kikus _strength." The ancient warrior clears he throat again. "I know by my own means that he acquired re'em blood weeks ago, so_ kikus _is a given--it's a simple rune, after all. Zue que feathers, and bakeneko saliva arrived at the school yesterday by courier, so we should expect magical focus glyphs next. We should have some months before the child progresses to that stage, though if he were to succeed, he would prove to be a much more difficult mark.

"So, none of the darker runes?"

"No." Chevalier takes a sip of _vin rouge _and replaces his goblet on the small, circular table to the left of his chair. "From other intelligence I've received, we do not expect him to pursue that path. The boy is a fitting charge for _le Vouler_, a man I could respect, were circumstances different." The elderly man folds his book closed and sets it aside. He stands and steps toward the window. Pale, spotted hands grasp the sill as he looks out over the Alpine range in the distance.

"Sir?" Faucon is surprised at hearing of Chevalier'sreverence for his arch rival.

"You are dismissed, my peregrine."

* * *

"Poppy, how's he doing?" The Headmaster strides into the infirmary, his lavender and canary yellow robes flaring behind him.

"Stable, though I don't think I've ever seen anyone so close to death who didn't need to be fitted for burial robes. Merlin, what's going on? Who could have done such a thing, Albus? And on the Hogwarts Express no less!"

"That's something I'd like to hear too, Albus." Remus has kept a vigil since Harry's arrival two days ago. The man's jacket, shabby grey tweed, is wrinkled from his having slept in it for two nights. He has two days' beard growth and a wild look on his face.

"I have my speculations on the matter, Remus, but this is neither the time nor place to voice them." The werewolf growls subaudially. "When I know more, I assure you that I shall share my thoughts with you."

* * *

_Dear Fleur,_

_I apologize for not replying to your letter earlier. As you might have heard, I had a bit of an adventure on the Hogwarts Express the other day. I was attacked by an assassin who stabbed me twice with a poisoned dagger, but I managed to portkey to the hospital wing and after a two day lie-in I was no worse for wear, though I did add a couple scars to my collection..._

_I'm pretty sure I killed my attacker and I'm confused about how I really feel about it. It's strange being 14 and knowing I've killed two people (the other was my Defense teacher my first year, who had Voldemort in his head. I can tell you the story sometime if you're_

_interested). I don't feel like a killer, since it was self-defense both times, but I don't feel "clean" either, if that makes any sense. The thing I can't figure out is how anyone knew I was going to be on the train, since I only told a few people._

_On a happier subject, did Gabrielle like her chocolate frogs? They are my favorite and I thought she'd appreciate them (though I hope your mum didn't give her too hard a time). Let her know that if she got an Agrippa card, I know someone who would pay her many Galleons for it!_

_For some reason, my friends don't seem close anymore. I told you about Ron, my best mate, but he is really cold now. It's like I did something to offend him, but I can't figure out what. My other best friend, Hermione, is dating Ron and she spends most of her time with him. More than anything, I miss having someone close to my age to talk to, someone like you. The past weeks, I've come to realize how much I miss spending time with you. _

_Tell me more about the Tri-Wizard tournament! I didn't make our opening feast, so I didn't hear what the Headmaster had to say about it. Are you really coming to Hogwarts in a month? I hope you're selected as a champion--if so, I know you'll be brilliant!_

_Take care of yourself, Fleur, and let me know if you want someone to help you with your preparation when you get to Hogwarts. I wouldn't mind being your sparring partner, provided you go easy on me. (Madame Pomfrey has warned me about staying out of her ward!)_

_I've asked Hedwig to stay with you while you write your reply, but if you're too busy, I understand. Feel free to send her on her way._

_Your friend,_

_Harry_

* * *

"Hey Fred, George." Harry walks into the sixth year Gryffindor dormatory.

"Harry, to what do we owe the pleasure of your esteemed company?" George stands and offers a mock bow.

"I was wondering if you guys could help me with something."

"You have your eye on some bird and don't know how to tell her?" Fred's eyebrows waggle. "You've come to the right place. We're nothing, if not suave and subtle."

Harry snorts. "Right. No, it's about Ron."

"You have your eye on Ron? Oh, Harry, I didn't know that you swing that way." Fred flutters his eyelashes as he leans his head on Harry's shoulder and places his hand on Harry's abdomen, guiding it slowly southward.

"No, git!" He swats away Fred's hand. "It's that he acts like he hates me or something. He hasn't talked to me in weeks. I don't know what I did to make him so pissed at me and I just wondered if you guys knew something."

"Well, you did turn down Dad's offer to attend the World Cup. Said you had 'more important' people to see," George says, officiously, framing the inverted commas with his fingers.

Fred continues, seriously, "Dad and Mum were right put out, Harry, hearing that. Mum even cried for a spell." Harry's heart sinks as he realizes why Molly and Arthur were so cool towards him at King's Cross several days ago.

"Took Dean instead, Ron did."

"Oi, don't remind me..."

"Dean's floppy tongue in little Ginny's mouth..." Fred shivers.

"Scarred for life, I am, oh brother of mine,"

Harry blinks at the image and then blurts, "Wait! What do you mean, 'turned him down?' He never invited me! I showed up at the Burrow that night, thinking we'd all listen on the wireless as we'd planned, but nobody was home. I was sleeping on your couch, waiting for you when Pigwidgeon showed up."

"Really?" George and Fred chorus, looking thoughtful.

"Why would I lie? The first I heard you had tickets was when Pig delivered Ron's and Hermione's letters the night of the game... It sounded brilliant. I'd have said, 'yes' in a heartbeat, you know." Though he's furious, his last words are barely audible.

"How odd. I think we need to have a family _t_ê_te-à-tête_ with ickle Ronnikins and find out what's up. Don't you worry, Harry, we'll get to the bottom of this."

"Thanks guys. By the way, what are you two doing up here all the time? I never see you down in the common room anymore."

The twins look at each other, then turn to him, each clasping a hand on one of Harry's shoulders. "Harry, old man, we are looking for business partners..."

* * *

"So what is this I hear about Fleur and the lesser thief?" the tall, dark-haired man whispers to his fiancée's father. His robes, dark brown silk the exact hue of his eyes, are cinched at his waist in a modern fashion that accentuates long legs and an athletic build. He deports with privilege and feline grace, his long, wavy tresses tied in the fashion of pureblood gentry.

"Robért, the boy is quite taken with her since their first meeting some weeks ago. They have been exchanging letters." Gerard Delacour swallows some champagne as he watches his radiant daughter charm a ministry official. He turns to Robért and notices the addition of ebony embroidery at the cuffs of his robes, the mark of a scion. Since the recent death of Robért's cousin, leadership of the Dupuis family was in flux. Not so anymore. "The boy is surprisingly resistant to her veela nature."

"Interesting. I was not aware that there was a... technique to confer such resistance."

The older man scowls slightly, impressing on his lesser a need for discretion. "There is none, not of that sort. Fleur tells me that he is a most remarkable boy, able to resist her from their first, yet decidedly heterosexual. It is a most impressive restraint, as I understand that he had never encountered veela before their meeting."

"Indeed." The two share a knowing glance as Fleur approaches, a picture of grace. She accepts a glass of white wine from a servitor as she arrives.

"Father, Robért," she smiles, kissing each on the cheek, and then slipping her hand demurely around the elbow of the younger. She smiles slightly at her intended, playing the role expected of her.

"Fleur, my love," Robért says, warmly. "We were just discussing_ le Survivant_. I understand that you now write to him regularly?"

"Yes..." Her voice is cautious.

"Do not fret, I am not jealous," his brown eyes gentle. "I merely wish to know more about the boy--he is famous, no? What kind of child is he?"

"He is hardly a child. I've learned much of him. He has had a difficult life, one that left him humble in spite of his fame. He is very brave--he has faced dementors, acromantula, dark wizards--he slew a twenty-meter basilisk with a sword..."

"My, a tiger in a kitten's body! Such tales--he must have a gift for storytelling," he says, laughing condescendingly.

"I was skeptical too, my love, but I've corroborated his stories--if anything, he is being humble. It is a pity that Gabrielle is so young..." she sighs wistfully, then fixes her father with a stare, her voice picking up a slight edge, "Did you know, Father, that someone tried to assassinate Harry Potter some days ago?"

He holds her eyes for a moment and then nods slowly. "I am aware of that, _ma petite,_" he says, dryly.

"Yes. He barely survived, but he dispatched his attacker in a most... dramatic fashion." She takes a large swallow of wine, an adequate white Bordeaux. Her fair cheeks flush spots of pink and she dons a pursed, slightly feral smile. "I do not believe that it is safe to underestimate Harry Potter." She looks out across the parlor at the other elegantly dressed guests who are chatting amicably.

Gerard Delacour regards his daughter for a moment. "Fleur, I ask that you continue your acquaintance with this boy while you are in Scotland and befriend him if possible. Many of us wish to know more about him."

"Yes, father," she says, a coldness growing in the pit of her stomach.

* * *

Harry sits alone at breakfast, quiet in his thoughts. Since the incident on the train, few students speak to him. Judging by the words he overhears, it stems from most regarding him as dangerous to be around. Others are in shock at the way he handled his assailant, decapitating him, exploding his head, and leaving the remains plastered about the corridor of the Express. Hermione is furious that he won't join her new organization for house elf rights, of all things--even Harry, muggle-raised as he is, knows that this is ill advised. _At least the Creevys are keeping their distance--thank Merlin for small miracles_. He shrugs, mildly annoyed, remembering the ostracism of his first year after the dragon incident and his second, with the Chamber of Secrets.

He smiles as his snowy owl, Hedwig, arrives. He unfastens the letter she carries, which is written in a graceful script that he knows well, and he offers her a banger from his plate. He brings the letter, written on chiffon parchment, to his nose and closes his eyes, catching a faint whiff of salt air and his friend's perfume--whether she intends or not, it reminds Harry of southern France, of walks by the sea, of happiness. Glancing at his watch, he realizes that he doesn't have time to read it, so he stows it in his bag and rushes to his Defense Against the Dark Arts class.

Harry reaches the classroom just before the bell and he takes a seat adjacent to the back wall. The Slytherins and Gryffindors are already seated. Neville makes eye contact and gives him a small wave, which Harry returns with a nod. Today, the agenda is to continue tuition of the Unforgivable curses, each student being subjected to an _Imperius_ cast by their psychotic ex-auror instructor, Mad Eye Moody.

Since he started being able to sense magical auras, Harry has been disturbed by what he sees in the professor. He notes peculiar magic, not unlike a _glamour_ spell, surrounding the man's broken body and a charnel taint of darkness.

After a tedious lecture, including several comical entreaties of "Constant Vigilance," the class take turns being placed under the _Imperius _curse. None come close to shaking off the curse, yet all, save Harry and Moody, laugh at the antics of their classmates while under the curse.

"Potter, you ready?" Harry nods. "_Imperio_."

A warm sensation sweeps over Harry and he feels an urge to listen to the voice in his head that tells him to stand up onto the desk. He takes a step forward, then asks himself, "why?" The voice in his head asks him again, "Why?" as he takes a second step and grows louder, harder to ignore. "Why do this?" He bends his knees and gathers for a jump. "What point does it serve? Why should I listen to him?" The slack expression on his face fades and Harry stumbles into the desk, bruising his knees in the process. He stands up and grumbles, "I don't think I will, Professor. Why don't _you_ stand on the desk?"

The class is completely silent.

Moody eyes him coldly for a moment, then laughs loudly. "Good work, Potter. You threw it off in the end--glad to see at least one of you snot-noses could." His false eye looks Harry up and down. "You ready to take the kid gloves off, Boy, try one at full strength?"

"Do your worst," he says, seething at the epithet.

"_Imperio_!"

This time a thick, red-pink bolt jets from Moody's wand and washes over Harry with a heady, intoxicating warmth. The command, to politely tell the professor that he is physically attractive, seems such a little thing to do, why not? The voice is seductive, beguiling... wrong. The faint questioning voice in Harry's head returns, "Wrong! Why? Why do this? This isn't right. This just isn't right!" Harry's head clears and he blinks at his instructor innocently.

"Professor Moody?"

"Yes, Potter, I believe you have something you wish to say to me?"

"Sod off, you hideous freak." The look on Moody's face is priceless.

"Oh, ho! Nice one, Potter. You've got some steel balls, I'll give you that. Take your seat. Ten points to Gryffindor." Harry is just happy to have this ordeal behind him--he loathes the attention and he resents losing control to anyone, much less Moody.

Malfoy calls out, "Professor, what about the _Cruciatus _curse?"

"What about it? I sure as hell am not teaching it to _you_, of all people. Not while I remember your old man putting it on me before I brought his pasty ass in."

Draco blanches. "Father was under the _Imperius_."

"Yeah, right kid, and my mug's won _Witch Weekly's_ Most Dazzling Smile..."

"Well, aren't you going to give us a chance to learn to fight it?" Malfoy interjects with a smirk.

"Kid, if you couldn't throw off an _Imperius_, and you weren't even close, there's no chance in hell you could fight a _Cruciatus." _He turns to address the classroom, clomping his peg leg onto the floor for emphasis. "The curse is no joke. People have died under it, gone insane under it." His artificial eye lingers on Neville. "Very few have ever fought it off when the curse is properly done." He fixes Harry with both eyes, a thoughtful expression on his face. "And I'd bet a stack of Galleons that only one of you would have a hope of doing it. Though it isn't my call whether he wants to have a go."

Harry looks up at his professor. "What do you mean, Professor."

"I mean, Potter," he turns to Harry, a feral gleam in his biological eye, "that if you want a shot at the trifecta, a chance to prove to yourself that you can beat all three Unforgivables, then you'll have to give me your explicit permission. I don't fancy gumming my food in Azkaban, if you catch my meaning, Boy."

Harry looks at the crippled man for a long time and blows out an angry sigh.

"I didn't think you wanted a go," Moody says, turning away from Harry.

"Let's go," Harry says icily as he walks to the front of the classroom. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and silently transfigures it into a terry cloth towel, which he rolls into a gag. "Let's do it. 'I give you my permission to cast the _Cruciatus_ on me.' Everyone here is a witness." Harry knows that, by virtue of his apprentice status, he has been formally emancipated and that his permission absolves Moody from prosecution for use the curse.

The class erupts in alarm. Hermione appears as if she's going to cry and pleads desperately with the stoic pair to reconsider. Malfoy looks like Christmas has come early. Ron is just confused. _No change from the norm there--the git will probably just get jealous and find a way to say that I "hogged the spotlight" again._ Neville gets up and races for the door.

Harry and Moody clear out space near the front of the room and the students in the front rows move toward the back to avoid getting hit by any stray reflected curses. Harry puts the gag in his mouth.

Moody regards him for a moment, then snarls, "_Crucio."_ A bright red bolt writhes out the end of his wand and arcs to Harry's chest, dropping him onto his back with a muffled scream. _God this HURTS_! Harry's glasses fall off as his body convulses. Every nerve ending is over-stimulated, white-hot knives piercing his flesh everywhere. He struggles for thirty seconds longer, his body shuddering in wave after wave of agony. Eventually, he manages to get his fingers around the handle of his wand, but he can't seem to pull it out--it keeps snagging on the pocket of his robes.

The door to the classroom crashes open and the Headmaster and his deputy enter, Neville trailing behind. "Alastor!" the Headmaster booms, "What are you doing!?"

"Teaching," he says, petulantly, as he drops the curse and folds his arms.

Harry fights the involuntary shaking of his limbs and stands slowly. He removes the bloody towel from his mouth--the lining of his mouth having started bleeding. "I... gave him... permission... Professor," he pants, his hands on his knees. "I need to know... that I can beat it..."

"Oh, Harry," Professor McGonagall exclaims, looking ill.

"Harry, this is not the place..." The Headmaster approaches Harry.

"Spare me, sir." He stares piercingly at the older man and continues, quietly enough that only his mentor can hear his words. "You know what I face, why I have to know." Hermione opens her mouth to chastise Harry, but reconsiders when she sees the grim look on Harry's face and the nod and resigned sigh from his tutor. Harry takes several deep breaths, no longer gasping as if he's run a mile, and turns to the ex-auror. "Again, Moody."

"Alastor, don't. He's just a student..."

"He's a consenting adult, Minerva. It's his right if he wants to, and I'll damn well help him if he does." He turns to Harry. "You're absolutely sure about this, Boy?"

"Again!" He places the gag back into his mouth and stares at Moody defiantly.

Moody regards him a moment, then grumbles, "_Crucio_."

The bolt slams into his abdomen with what feels like the force of the Hogwarts Express, but Harry has braced himself. He collapses, as before, yet somehow manages to retain a firmer grip on coherence. After several seconds that feel like an eternity, his shaking hands reach his wand and he draws it. Though his vision is converging from the edges, blackness claiming sight and sense, he raises his wand arm. With a Heraclean effort, he overcomes the convulsions and manages a vaguely slashing motion with the wand tip, thinking "_diffindo_" in his head. _Not the cleanest job I've done, but at least Sirius isn't here to criticize_. An orange ribbon flies upward from his wand and strikes Moody in the right arm, cutting him deeply from wrist to elbow. The pain stops as Moody's wand chatters on the floor.

"Fuck me!" Moody mutters, grasping his disabled arm tightly above the elbow to stem the flow of arterial blood. The room falls eerily silent, save for weeping heard from the Gryffindor and most of the Slytherin witches and the soft "pat, pat, pat" of Moody's blood falling to the floor. The Headmaster's jaw is open. A tear wells in the corner of one of Professor McGonagall's eyes as she casts a quick healing charm on Moody's arm.

With a struggle, Harry stumbles to his feet, limbs shaking violently, as if struck by palsy. Leaning on desks as he goes, he staggers to the rear of the classroom and collapses into his chair. After several deep breaths, he opens his eyes to glare at at those who gawk at him, essentially everyone in the room. Neville's face in particular is a rictus of horror.

"Potter, anything you wish to tell the class about what you just experienced?"

"Hurts. Bad. Avoid it if you can."

"Understatement, if I've ever heard one." Moody's laugh sounds like a cough. "Class dismissed." The students leave in shocked silence, none saying a word as they pass Harry, who remains in his seat. Moody approaches. "Good work there, Potter. I'd give you house points, but it somehow doesn't seem appropriate. You'd better get yourself over to Pomfrey or you'll be hurting for weeks. I know from experience." He limps toward the door.

Pausing just before the exit, he turns back. "We put every auror trainee through the _Cruciatus_ before they finish the program, just to see how they handle it. I've yet to see anyone break it like you, kid, and trust me, I've trained the best. If you don't join the corps after Hogwarts, it'll be a goddamned shame."

* * *

A/N: Moody's parting comments about house points were inspired by a similar exchange in jbern's _The Lie I Lived_.

Regarding the rating: Moody's expletive is one of a budget of two before the story rating goes to 'M'. (It will go there before that because of the content of one of the upcoming chapters).

There may be a slight delay for chapter five. On the advice of early readers, I've decided to add a couple of scenes.


	5. Goblet of Fire

Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

My thanks go to beta readers ParseltonguePhoenix and Fenraellis. And the crew at DLP, for their comments on an early draft--the champions selection scene was added on their recommendation. Also, Vlad the Inhaler suggested a few minor changes to the Fleur/Gabrielle scene in Chapter 3, which have been made.

Thanks to all who have read and reviewed!

* * *

CHAPTER 5

Goblet of Fire

* * *

_Dearest Harry,_

_Thank you for writing me. I have been so lonely and I miss seeing you too. Your letters give me something to look forward to. In a few weeks, we shall have each other, no?_

_I have but a few days more and then I can leave this place for something new. Father wishes for me to join him at the Ministry after school, though I don't wish to. I don't know how I will be able to convince him. I find myself unable to oppose him, no matter how much my mind may be made up otherwise._

_Gabrielle asked me to thank you for the chocolate frogs. I think she ate them all in one sitting! She did not get an Agrippa card, but she did get two Dumbledore cards. Did you know that you are listed on them now as his apprentice?_

_I thank you for your offer to help me train. I shall ask Madame Maxime whether she will permit it--I do hope she agrees, as I am sure we would make a wonderful team! _

_I had heard about what happened on your train, both from the newspapers and from Father, who received word from the Ministry. It sounds as if you acted in self-defense, so you should not blame yourself, but I know I cannot know what you are going through as I have never taken a life. Please understand that I do not think less of you, but more, since the assassin you dispatched could have harmed others. _

_You are a hero to me, my rogue._

_Love, _

_Fleur_

* * *

"Harry, who's the letter from?" Hermione's question causes him to look up from his station near the window. The two are alone in the Gryffindor common room early on Saturday, Harry having finished his morning exercises, Hermione getting an early start on a potions essay.

"Nobody, really. Someone I met this summer."

"Nobody?" she smiles, "Then why is it the only time you look happy is when you are reading a letter she sent?" At his look of surprise, she continues, "...and yes, it's a 'she.' Who else would send a letter that you would spend as much time smelling as reading?"

Harry coughs nervously. "Is it obvious?"

"To me, yes. But I pay more attention than most," she says smugly.

"I don't know. You're right--I've never been good with feelings." He looks away. "I just have a lot of things on my mind now."

"Harry, talk to me. You're miserable and I want to help..."

"I'm fine, really." She gives him a disbelieving look. After a long pause, Harry concedes, "My scar has been hurting a lot, okay? I'm not sleeping well at all. Usually that has something to do with Voldemort, which I guess isn't surprising, with what happened at the World Cup. He's coming back, you know..."

"You-Know-Who? You should talk with Professor Dumbledore, Harry!"

"I have, Hermione, many times in fact. It just means that Voldemort's gaining strength and will make his return soon," Harry says, tired. "Remember this summer, when you scolded me for not working hard enough?"

"I didn't scold you, Harry, I just..."

"You scolded me all right and I probably deserved it. Listen, I'm going to share a secret--I've been spending nearly every waking hour training and haven't taken a real break in ages. I'm just so utterly knackered... I don't know how long I can keep it up." He closes his eyes, wishing he could just keep them closed and fall asleep. "Did you know that I used your time turner all summer to overlap my training several times over?" She gasps. "Trust me, I abused it far worse than you ever thought to do--Sirius figures that I averaged about a six times overlap, though toward the end it was more like fifteen. So much so, I lost count and we started overloading the charms on the Room of Requirement that I showed you. Remus figures I caught up on the equivalent of a year and a half in a couple of months, and this was working intensely, one-on-one, with tutors."

He smiles grimly. "You know how you felt at the end of last year? Take that and multiply it by ten and you'll have how I feel. Now you know how I'm doing so well now in my classes, which I _know_ you resent..."

"Harry!" she protests.

He winks at her. "Hermione, I may have been lazy, but I've never been stupid. I know it's part of why you've been distant. Well, that and the elves and the whole thing with Ron."

He looks down at his hands and sighs. "I dropped Care of Magical Creatures yesterday since with my work for Albus and Voldemort's return, I don't really have time to spend on Hagrid's 'blasted screwts.' I broke his heart when I told him, so now I've got one more person who's avoiding me like I'm a thestral."

"Harry, I'm really sorry about how I reacted before with S.P.E.W..."

"Forget it, Hermione. You and the twins are the only ones here, besides the teachers, who even bother trying to talk to me, who aren't put off by everything. I'm not upset--really. I just... feel like an outsider, like I'm not part of this place anymore. I wear my invisibility cloak a lot when I walk the halls now--I just have too much on my mind to worry about dealing with the others.

"As for writing Fleur, it helps to talk with someone else who is on the outside, who has her own experience with the same kinds of things."

"Harry, I'm so sorry. I hope you know I'll always be your friend." She looks down at her hands, then back to Harry's eyes, her own showing amusement. "You know, Harry, you seem to be figuring out pretty well what your feelings are." She smiles faintly. "Before today I didn't know you were even capable of talking about them..." She gives him a calculating look. "So tell me about this Fleur."

Harry shifts uncomfortably and looks out the window at the overcast day, the grounds showing only in hues of grey. "We first met in July when I went with Albus to Beauxbatons to finalize something with the tournament. Since then, we've seen each other lots of times and she's turned into a good friend. She's is a seventh year--brilliant, talented... drop dead gorgeous." He grins. "She's coming to Hogwarts to compete in the Tournament. I don't think you'll like her though. Most women hate veela on sight."

"She's a veela?"

"Part veela, one quarter on her mum's side."

Hermione is quiet for a moment. "Are you affected by her magic?"

"It did affect me at first. It doesn't anymore, well not really. I can still feel it, but I know what's going on so I don't let it control me. I think she's relieved too to find someone she can talk to who won't get hung about her being a veela." He turns and looks at his friend, who twists a strand of bushy hair about her finger. "Do I get to ask you a question now?"

"Sure, Harry."

"What the hell happened with Ron? This jealousy is out of sorts, even for him."

She sighs sadly. "I wish I knew. I can't even mention your name around him without a blow up. It's pretty annoying and I think we're headed for some time apart."

"Don't break up on my account. For what it's worth, the twins couldn't get an answer either. He's got some real issues to work through." Harry chews the inside of his cheek for a moment before continuing, "I caught him trying to break into my trunk last night."

"What?!"

"Yeah, I watched him do it--I'd slipped under my cloak to come back for something without bothering anyone. He was using opening spells, even tried prying it open and smashing the lock. I don't know what he was playing at, but after the assassination attempt, I can't risk being around people I can't trust." He looks out the window again. "I'm moving out of Gryffindor tower tomorrow and into one of the guest quarters.

He takes a deep breath and looks out the window. "I'll miss this view."

* * *

Harry trudges into the Great Hall, utterly fatigued, his tie loosened, his robes disheveled. A several-hour detention following his normal Saturday training routine has caused him to miss the arrival of the two schools, an event he had been anticipating for weeks. The Hall is abuzz with excitement at the arrival of new faces and speculation about the Goblet of Fire, set in a corner, and the upcoming Tri-Wizard Tournament. Harry notices the artifact immediately, his vision drawn to it by its brilliant magical glow.

At the Slytherin table, thirty new students sit dressed in dark red uniforms lined with fur, their hardened demeanor consistent with stories of the austerity of the Durmstrang Institute. Viktor Krum, Quidditch prodigy and seeker for the Bulgarian national team, is near the Slytherin prefects, where he engages in conversation that is as much gestures as words.

The Ravenclaw table hosts the two-score contingent of Beauxbatons students, who wear robes of blue silk adorned with coats of arms--crossed wands on a powder blue field. Harry scans the table for a familiar face and he spots a platinum-haired witch sitting near the end across from Ravenclaw prefect, Roger Davies, who speaks animatedly to her. Beside him is a sandy-haired, sixth year Ravenclaw wizard, who stares at her dazedly. She wears a slight frown as she nods at her prattling companion. She takes a dainty bite of her stew, a fish concoction prepared with fennel, and swallows with disgust. She continues to nod absently at the prefect as she scans the room. Noticing Harry, she beams and waves brightly, excusing herself to rise to meet him.

"Harry! It is so good to see you." Fleur smiles brilliantly and gives Harry a tight embrace, followed by busses on his cheeks. Her breathless greeting, which takes place in the center of the Great Hall, elicits a response from most of the students--the young men either gazing longingly at Fleur or balefully at Harry, the women staring maliciously at Fleur. Roger Davies fixes Harry with a particularly hateful glare.

"It's good to see you too, Fleur--I missed you. I hope your trip went well."

"_Oui_, very well, but it's so good to arrive. I'm not one for long flights." She leans toward him and whispers, "I'm sorry, but zis English food is horrid--ze bouillabaisse_, _it isn't fit for a dog." She shivers and attaches to his arm, a gesture which causes Harry to blush self-consciously. "The castle here is quite cold, _non_? I shall have to ask _ma mère_ to send warmer clothing."

"You're welcome to use Hedwig if you like. She'd love the chance to fly to France again." Harry's stomach flutters at being in close proximity with the witch. He is almost sure that it is her veela aura at work and that he is out of practice at subduing its effects.

"You are too kind, Harry." She raises an eyebrow at him and teases, "So, were you with a woman--is that why you missed my arrival?"

Harry groans. "Unfortunately, no. I had detention with my potions instructor, Sn- er, Professor Snape. He likes to schedule my detentions whenever I have something I'd much rather be doing." He smiles at her and half-winks. "And seeing you again certainly qualifies."

Her laughter is musical and Harry can't help but grin wider in response. "So, Harry, my rogue, will you escort me to the Goblet? I wish to put my name in it and I prefer to avoid being accosted by cretins." After a few steps, she says, "I encountered your... Ron." She spits the name with obvious distaste.

"He was a prat, wasn't he?"

She nods at Harry, noticing the glares of a pair of nearby witches. She answers them with an aloof sniff as she and Harry pass. Several seventh year students have congregated near the Goblet of Fire, including Viktor Krum, who has just entered his name. The Bulgarian seeker gives Harry an appraising look, mumbles a few syllables in Bulgarian and sulks toward the Slytherins. Harry sneaks a look back at the Gryffindor table and catches a murderous glare from his former best mate, who is muttering to Dean and Seamus.

"Yes, you could say that. But his woman pulled him away."

Harry nods. "That was Hermione. She usually can keep him in line."

Fleur whispers in his ear, "I do not think they will stay a couple, Harry. This Hermione slapped him after he was very rude. I don't blame her, either."

Harry stops abruptly as they approach at the Cup. "I see the ward line here, Fleur, so I shouldn't go further--I'm sure that whatever the Headmaster has cooked up is something I wouldn't want to test."

She looks surprised, "You can _see_ the ward, Harry?" He nods and she turns to him, teasing, "You really are not going to try to enter? I should think a hero like you would jump at the chance..."

"I'm afraid not, Fleur. Though it would be fun and I would enter if I could, I've got enough going on now with my apprenticeship. I'll be content watching you compete." He smiles, "Though you make it hard for me. I'll be torn whether to cheer on my _alma mater_ or my dear friend--and I'm leaning toward the latter." He straightens his shoulders. "Besides, fair maiden, as but a mere fourth year, I would stand not a chance against such an accomplished and enchanting witch as you." He bows deeply, reminiscent of the more clumsy bow he had made when they first met.

She laughs again, their feigned formality a private joke of theirs. "You never know, good sir." She curtseys, then steps gracefully towards the Cup to enter her name.

* * *

"So what gives, Harry? You holding out on us?" George and Fred sit at the table on either side of Harry, who is eating his breakfast.

"What do you mean?" Harry has learned the hard way to be wary whenever the twins take a sudden interest in him.

"Who was that fine bird you were with yesterday?" Fred asks.

"'Fine bird,' he says." George rolls his eyes. "That's why I'm the eloquent one. 'Exquisite creature,' more like."

"Her name is Fleur Delacour. I met her this summer when Albus and I visited Beauxbatons," Harry says, taking a bite of eggs, then grins widely. "She _is_ rather brilliant, isn't she?"

"'Rather brilliant' is a bit of an understatement. Just like Ron is 'rather dense.'" George nudges Harry, who bumps into Fred.

"Angelic, more like it. And to see she has eyes for our Harry--growing up, this one is." Fred nudges Harry back into George.

"Hardly. She's a seventh year..." Harry protests.

"And a veela too, if we're reading ickle Ron's reaction right," George continues, stealing a rasher of bacon from Harry's plate.

"Oi, remember the World Cup?" Fred steals a piece himself.

"Guys, my food!" Harry covers his plate.

"How could I forget? Nearly took a swan dive, our brother did..."

"Off the top row, no less..."

"To impress some veela. Poor boy."

"Hermione was none to pleased."

"Fleur and I are just friends," Harry says, pushing his plate away from him. "She's a prodigy in charms and heiress to two old, aristocratic lines on the Continent." He sighs. "Even if I were interested, she's a bit out of my league, don't you think?"

"You never know, Harry, old chap."

"Well, brother of mine, shall we do the deed?"

"Definitely."

"You guys are still planning to try to beat Dumbledore's age line?" Harry asks, incredulous at their misplaced Gryffindor bravery.

* * *

"Representing the Durmstrang Institute will be... Viktor Krum!"

"Krum! Krum! Krum!" The Durmstrang students shout in unison upon the announcement of their champion, punctuating each word with slammed fists on the Slytherin table. The timing and choreography leads Harry to believe that they had little doubt who would be selected. Viktor Krum stands proudly and salutes the assembled students with a nod and a clenched fist over his chest. He spins on his heel and marches quickly to the front of the Great Hall to follow his Headmaster, Igor Karkaroff to the waiting area.

The Goblet of Fire fizzles and crackles anew, yellow and white sparks flying out its mouth. With a small "boom," it spits out a slip of parchment. Albus Dumbledore grabs it from the air and shows it to the two Ministry officials, who nod. Harry recognizes them from his time with the Headmaster over the summer--the taller, heavy-set man with a paunch is Ludo Bagman, a former beater for the Wasps who somehow, despite his ties to Voldemort in the last war, managed to secure a Ministry position. The shorter, prim-looking man with a neatly trimmed Vandyke and cold, black eyes is Barty Crouch Senior, Department Director and aggressive Death Eater prosecutor in days past. That he and Bagman can work together in the same department is considered by most to be a minor miracle.

"Representing Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will be... Cedric Diggory!"

Cedric stands to cheers from the assembled students. Harry notices a few disappointed faces among the seventh years--Alicia Spinnet, Roger Davies, Natasha Marshak--but for the most part, the school seems united behind its champion. Cedric says a few words to his fellow Hufflepuffs and then makes a point of walking over to each of the other Hogwarts contenders and shaking their hands before he leaves, accompanied by his short, squat Head of House, Pomona Sprout. Harry can't help but feel happy for him, as well as a bit jealous.

Again the hall quiets as the goblet starts to spew sparks. Blue and green motes flick into the air and a third slip of parchment flies out and flutters into the outstretched hand of the Headmaster. He shows it to the two Ministry officials and then to Madame Maxime, who gives a stately nod.

"Representing the Beauxbatons Academy will be... Fleur Delacour!"

The blue-robed students all stand and applaud their champion, who rises, beaming. As she does, she glances over to Harry, who himself stands and applauds, making a "thumbs-up" sign with his hand. She tosses her hair back and steps gracefully between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables leaving in her wake a trail of stunned male students. Harry suspects that she must be very excited if she has allowed her control over her aura to lapse so. She follows her Headmistress, who ducks to pass through the portal, and leaves the hall as well.

"And with that, we conclude... the..."

The Headmaster is interrupted by a loud hissing and sizzling. He turns, stunned, to the goblet, which glows with red flames, and sees it expel a fourth slip of parchment. He snatches it, reads it for a long moment, and shows it to the officials, whose eyebrows rise. Crouch purses his lips and turns to his red-haired secretary, whom Harry recognizes as Percy Weasley, Head Boy from the prior year, and starts speaking animatedly. Percy nods and scribbles notes onto a parchment.

The Headmaster's shrewd eyes seek out Harry, who appears confused, like most in the hall, and then Moody, who stands near the rear of the Hall taking a pull from his hip flask. He clears his throat and speaks, deflated, "Listed as independent, no school affiliation, is the... fourth champion, Harry Potter."

Harry blinks, widemouthed, from his solitary spot at the far end of the Gryffindor table as all eyes turn toward him. He sees outrage and anger on the faces of the assembly. He looks to the Headmaster, who gives him a faint nod. Harry stands and straightens his shoulders before walking amidst a sea of muttering students as he makes his way towards the exit near the teachers' table. He walks up to the Headmaster and makes eye contact, whispering, "I didn't do it, sir."

He feels a gentle brush against his mind and he drops his Occlumency shields to allow access to his thoughts. After several seconds, his mentor nods. "Come, Harry, we must go meet the others." Harry leaves the Great Hall with brisk strides that belie the apprehension he feels. He is followed by the Headmaster and the Ministry personnel.

"Harry," Fleur says, her delight fading to distraction as Harry enters the low-ceilinged side chamber. "Whatever are you doing here?" The other two champions, with whom she was speaking, also turn toward Harry with scowls.

"I wish I knew," he says bitterly, crossing his arms and looking toward the Headmaster, who has just entered.

"Olympe, Igor, if you could please join us--something has come up on which we must confer." The Headmaster walks briskly to the side of the room opposite the four students, who are near windows overlooking a darkened courtyard. The three Ministry officials and Professor Sprout join the three and the Hogwarts Headmaster places a silencing ward about them. Within seconds, Karkaroff gesticulate wildly and Madame Maxime's face reddens as she speaks furiously to Crouch.

"Merlin, what's got them so upset?" Cedric asks.

"Me," Harry says flatly.

"Harry?" Fleur asks, putting a hand on his shoulder.

He turns to her. "After you left, Fleur, the goblet spit out a fourth champion." She gasps, her hand falling from Harry's shoulder, and steps back, contemplative. "Someone put my name in as an independent."

"_Someone_, Harry?" Cedric asks, doubtful, shaking his head and frowning. "But not you? Right..." He extrudes the last word. Krum nods slowly, appraising but not visibly upset, his arms folded across his wide chest.

Harry feels a flicker in Fleur's aura, indicating strong feelings. Swallowing, he girds himself and gazes into her soft, blue-grey eyes and, seeing nothing definitive, skims her surface thoughts with a light breath of Legilimency. The technique amounts to little more than a careful reading of body language and is the boundary of what is detectable and ethically permissible without her leave. Though she masks her feelings well, he senses a hint of betrayal, that she too is unsure about whether she can trust him.

"You have to believe me," he whispers, a tightness in his chest. She looks away.

"Dumbledore, we are leaving this evening. Krum, come..." Igor Karkaroff's loud voice snaps sharply as the man steps past the silencing ward.

"...must compete, it's a magically binding contract," Crouch implores, stepping through the ward as he follows the man.

Moody's unmistakable silhouette appears the doorway with his wand trained on the Durmstrang Headmaster, who freezes, his eyes hateful and fearful. "I don't think I have to look far to find who put Potter's name in that cup. Potter couldn't have passed the age line and I think maybe our resident Death Eater might know something about how his name got in?"

Karkaroff snarls, his hand easing toward his wand. Harry sees Krum discretely draw his as well.

"Just give me a reason," Moody says, his voice low and menacing as he sets his shoulders and relaxes into a dueling pose.

"Alastor, enough!" Dumbledore spryly steps between the two men.

"Zis, ees preposterous," Madame Maxime objects, her hands on her waist. "Beauxbatons cannot abide by zis irregularity--we had an agreement, which has been broken."

"Please, if you would all calm down." Dumbledore closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his long, crooked nose. "The fact of the matter is that Mr. Crouch is correct. A magically binding contract is in place and the selected champions are required to participate. Indeed, they are bound to compete in earnest--because of the enchantments on the Goblet, they cannot forfeit, save by being incapacitated. Even Mr. Potter, I'm afraid, is obliged to participate, despite that I am quite certain he did not enter himself..."

"'ow can you be sure, Dumbledore?" Madame Maxime says, glaring icily at Harry.

"He could not have--doing so would have constituted an oath and I would have sensed it over our bond. Someone else put his name in, for reasons we can only guess at."

Karkaroff shakes his head incredulously. "And I'm to believe you didn't condone this? How typical, Dumbledore, that you've manipulated this tournament to your advantage." He looks Harry up and down and sneers, baring brown teeth. "Mark my words--apprentice or not, the boy is too small, he doesn't belong with the others."

Harry seethes at the gibes and ignores the Headmaster's signal to stand fast. He steps forward and stares defiantly into the dull green eyes of Durmstrang Headmaster and says hotly, "_The boy_ didn't enter the tournament in the first place. But if I'm required to compete, so be it."

He crosses his arms and stares at the gaunt, bearded man, who, after a long spell, turns away with a patronizing smirk. "We shall see. Dumbledore, you might want to start interviewing for a new apprentice... I doubt he'll survive even the first task."

Crouch steps forward and makes a few hasty assurances and the professors and Ministry staff return behind the ward to rejoin their conference, but not before Percy issues his own threatening glare. Harry turns back to the other champions and sees Cedric staring equally coldly at him. Krum steps forward, holding out his hand. "Am sportsman, Potter, vant best competition. Vill look forward to beating you." He grins assuredly, showing a small gap between his front teeth.

Harry clasps his hand firmly. "Thanks, Krum. Likewise." He nods to Cedric, who returns with a curt nod of his own. Harry approaches the final champion, who has strode to the other side of the room, her back to him. "Fleur?" he asks quietly.

"Please, I wish to be alone, Harry." She sighs, still turned away from him. "I am not upset with you... I am upset because of you."

* * *

Harry grimaces as the brilliant scarlet sigil, which had crystallized in his mind just moments before, fades and morphs into something alien. The ruined black stain grows, snapping in his mind space the natal lines threading the thaumaturgic binding, both his own, silver gossamer lisles, and the more substantial reinforcements laid down by his mentor. The stain flares, blackness on black, and lashes at him, feeding mismatched energies back into his core. He screams in stereo--mind space and real.

He is shaken roughly by his mentor and his eyes blink open as he breaks the trance. On a scale of one to ten, with ten being _Cruciatus_ pain, Harry puts this experience at about a seven. Down from the nine of his last failed attempt, but progress too slow for his or his mentor's tastes.

The Headmaster removes his half-moon glasses and rubs his temples, obviously nursing a headache of his own. "Harry, I am disappointed that you have not been keeping up with your meditation. Must I remind you of the grave consequences were you to attempt to join this rune with inadequate preparation?" The Headmaster sits upon the corner of his large oak desk and looks at Harry sternly.

Harry is devastated as much by his own dashed expectations as by failing the man before him, Hermione's words about wasting the man's time ringing true. "I'm sorry, Albus. I know it's no excuse, but I've had a lot going on lately and haven't had as much chance to prepare as I should."

"Yes, Harry, I understand. As hard as you may find it to believe, I too was young once. But that does not mean that I excuse you." He sits upon his chair and folds his arms. "The stakes are high, now that subterfuge has joined you to this competition. I must insist that you make the time somehow. I suggest that you drop your potions class--I dare say Severus won't be too put out and your need to join the magical focus ritual is rather more acute than that of learning to brew cheering draughts."

Harry nods, part of him elated that he can escape Snape's torture chamber, but another part disappointed at not being able to keep up with the workload and at proving that Snape was perhaps right all along about fame and privilege overcoming lack of talent.

"Do you have any idea how my name was placed into the cup, sir?" he asks, changing the subject.

"No. I confess that I find the matter quite enigmatic as we took quite a number of precautions to guard against tampering." He smiles coltishly. "Let me pose this as a puzzle to you, Harry, as I believe we both need a diversion and you've proven quite adept at solving them in the past: The cup only allows one who is seventeen or eighteen years of age to place a name within and my own ward prevented any student from crossing the age line bearing a parchment with another's name scribed upon it--a rather brilliant piece of spellcrafting, if you don't mind my saying... Filius's marvelous charm prevented writing instruments from working within the warded space and my own ensured that conjurations were impossible. Neither portraits nor ghosts saw anything untoward. My ward recorded all who crossed the age line. Even the clever efforts of Misters Weasley," he chuckles.

Harry thinks for a moment. "Could anyone have written my name on a slip of paper and banished it into the goblet from outside the ward?"

"No. I believe it was Fred Weasley who found this out. Such an attempt would have incinerated the parchment as it crossed the ward line and the culprit would have triggered the defense mechanisms."

"How about from above or below? Could someone have gotten around them that way?"

The Headmaster shakes his head. "No, if you were still a student, you would learn in your NEWT charms study that a properly constructed ward is fashioned to avoid this, with the side bonus of strengthening the ward. And before you say it, neither animagus nor metamorphmagus transformation could have bypassed the ward, nor are time turners or magically enlarged spaces a possibility. Please think on it, Harry. I'd be most interested in what other ideas you come up with."

"I see, sir." He frowns for a moment. "From the visions I've had lately, I'm pretty sure that I was entered by Death Eaters somehow."

"I concur. I just do not know how it was done, nor what they have planned. It would seem that they are after something beyond merely killing you--that could be easier accomplished by other means, such as sending an assassin. Unfortunately, this means we all must all take Professor Moody's excellent advice about 'Constant Vigilance.'"

* * *

"Robért? What a surprise!" Fleur rushes down the steps at the entryway of the castle and into the arms of the dark, long-haired man. She embraces him tightly, her lissome body pressed against his own powerful form, and kisses him deeply.

"I am here only for the evening, my court flower, but I thought that we could dine together before I return." He leans in closely and whispers in her ear, "I have much I wish to speak to you about, including hearing of what you have learned in your stay here."

"Of course, my love. Let me tell Madame and get my cloak." She frowns slightly as soon as she steps inside the atrium.

Several minutes later, the two walk together down the southward path to Hogsmede Village. Fleur's arm is hooked in Robért's, her head leaning affectionately on the tall man's shoulder. They stop briefly to exchange a gentle, yet affectionate kiss. They do not notice a black-haired boy looking out from the window of one of the Hogwarts guest quarters, a boy who has watched the scene from afar.

* * *

"Bloody hell!" Harry screams in frustration as he picks himself up from the floor. Sirius's cocky grin makes his blood boil. Over the past month, as Harry has improved, Sirius's demeanor has become increasingly playful and, at times, highly annoying.

"Kiddo, if your transhield can't stop a low-powered _reducto_ from lil' ol' me, do you really think it can hold off dragon fire?" He points to the shattered remains of a transfigured granite slab that Harry had conjured to block the spell. Transfiguration takes a large toll in terms of concentration and power, which makes transfigured shields, or "transhields" among the hardest to make. The upside is that, as physical matter, a thick enough transhield can block an Unforgivable.

"Yeah. So I missed."

"I wouldn't say you missed, _per se_. You just fell back into your trademark 'monkey shit' casting style." He flutters his eyelashes at Harry, who answers with a rude hand gesture. Sirius emits a barking laugh as he vanishes the remains of Harry's ruined slab.

"In all seriousness Harry, pardon the pun, you're doing pretty well. It's tricky work, but bloody useful. The key is to optimize for size, thickness, and mass, not staying power..." He puts his hand on his chin and looks thoughtful, "...sort of the opposite of what witches want, come to think of it." Harry groans. "You typically only need seconds to block a curse, but you want to make sure it's thick enough and dense enough to do so, since you're sacrificing visibility and power to make it. You just need to work on maintaining concentration throughout the conjuration. I know it's hard with a spell bearing down on you, but you're almost there. Ready for another go?"

The two drill for another twenty minutes and Sirius calls for a halt. "Nice work, Harry. You've basically got it, to within practice. I just have one other wrinkle to show you tonight. Let's see what you make of this..." Sirius repeats his blasting curse as before, but precedes the wand motion with a slight sideways quiver of his wand, followed by a very subtle retraction. The bolt streaks from his wand with a head of dark orange and a yellow streamer, the latter exactly like the standard _reducto_. Harry's transhield snaps into existence and, as before, the curse strikes it dead-center. But, to Harry's surprise, it passes completely through the granite and smites him on the chest, hurling him onto his back. Harry sits up and looks dumbly at his conjured barrier, which appears intact.

"What the..."

"Gotcha." Sirius throws his head back and cackles. "Old dog's still some mad tricks, eh Harry?" He dances a ridiculous jig.

"Mad is right. How?" Harry continues to stare incredulously at the pristine slab until it fades on its own.

"I'll teach you, but it's a trade secret--you'll need to do nonverbally because it's just too damned cool to share." He winks conspiratorially. "Albus doesn't even know it. The incantation is _abeoconci_, which translates, roughly, to 'vanish briefly,' but it's probably closer to Pig Latin than real Latin. Funny thing is, if you do say it with textbook Latin, the spell won't work--James and I used to drive Remus up the wall with it. It only works with a few spells, mostly percussive ones. The wand motion is similar to _evanesco, _like this." Sirius drills Harry on the curse and shows him how to precede blasting and the bone-breaking curses.


	6. Dragons and Dark Lords

Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

My thanks go to beta readers ParseltonguePhoenix and Fenraellis. And the crew at DLP, for their comments on an early draft; the title of Rita's article pays tribute to their help. Also, Sesc gave invaluable help by educating me on German culture and naming conventions (and suggesting a much better name than I had before).

* * *

CHAPTER 6

Dragons and Dark Lords

* * *

"Cedric," Harry calls, jogging to catch up with the photogenic, seventh-year Hufflepuff.

Cedric Diggory turns around slowly and smirks at Harry, his demeanor much colder than the affable Quidditch captain Harry had known before the champions were selected.

"Potter. My congratulations on your being selected as the _second_ Hogwarts champion." He makes a show of shaking Harry's hand formally and Harry misses neither the emphasis placed on the word, "second," nor the arrogant smirk. The students in Cedric's entourage turn to stare at Harry, their expressions a mixture of disgust and distrust. Harry notices with annoyance that they all wear animated "Potter Stinks" badges, a recent invention of Draco Malfoy's. Cedric has two.

"I was wondering if I could speak to you for a bit, alone."

The older champion scoffs. "I don't think so, Potter. How do I know you're not going to try to put me out of commission before the first task." A young, attractive Asian witch on Cedric's arm gives Harry a cold glare. He recognizes her as Cho Chang, seeker for the Ravenclaw Quidditch team, a girl whom Harry had fancied in the past. He's more than a bit put out to see that she also wears two "Potter Stinks!" badges.

"Look, Cedric, I'll give you my wand while we talk. And you can hold yours on me if you're still nervous. I just have a few things to say and then if you want, you never have to speak to me again."

"Fine." He asks his companions to leave them and the two walk to a seldom-used side corridor where Harry hands over his wand.

"Look, I had nothing to do with my name being entered. I'll swear it if you want."

"Prove it." He tosses Harry's wand back to him. Harry swears an oath and the wand tip glows bright blue. He starts to hand his wand back to Cedric, but the older boy waves him off. "I believe you, Potter, but why would someone enter you?" Harry notices that Cedric keeps his wand drawn.

"Dumbledore suspects it's someone who wants me killed. Who it is isn't important. That they are trying to is. I just wanted to warn you to watch out in case the tasks are sabotaged in order to get to me. I've already told Fleur and Viktor."

"Noted." He swallows. "And thanks, Potter." He looks around, then lowers his voice, "Speaking of tasks, do you have any idea what the first one is?"

Harry weighs the advantage he holds over his competitor against the disadvantage that if Cedric realizes that Harry knows what the task is, he'll lose any chance at building trust with the older Hufflepuff. He opts to help him. "Yeah, it's dragons. They're guarding something and we have to get it from them."

"Dragons? Should I ask how you know? Privileges of apprenticeship?" He scowls again.

Harry shrugs. "You wouldn't believe me if I say 'no,' so why bother. Contrary to popular opinion, Albus didn't set this tournament up just so I could win. Quite the contrary, given that someone wants to do me in..."

Cedric raises an eyebrow and gives Harry a long look. He notices that Harry is watching the antics of his animated "Potter Stinks" badges. The older champion shifts uncomfortably and gestures to the badges, "Sorry about this."

Harry shrugs. "I've got too much on my plate to worry over that. Good luck in the tournament, Diggory."

* * *

"You insufferable prat!" Hermione's voice is shrill and brings the Great Hall to silence at the spectacle.

"Fine, then. We're through." Ron waves his hand dismissively and turns to shovel a heaping spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

Hermione grabs her bag and rushes from the Great Hall in tears. Harry watches the scene and picks up his own bag to follow her. He catches up to the crying witch just outside the library. "Hermione, wait up!"

"Harry. This is not a good time." She turns away, but Harry has wrapped his hand gently around her upper arm to prevent her from escaping to the stacks.

"Come here." He pulls her close to him and she leans into him as she sobs on his shoulder.

"Ron is such a git." The two stay this way for several minutes as Hermione takes solace in his embrace. He strokes her hair gently.

"Hermione, if there's anything I can do..."

"Harry, it's not you, it's Ron. And me, for ever feeling anything for the git." The two are late for their charms class, but somehow Harry can't bring himself to care.

After several more minutes, she wipes her eyes, and uses her wand to dry the front of his robes. "Thanks, Harry. I just needed a good cry." She kisses him on the cheek and walks away.

Harry brings his hand to his face where Hermione's lips had touched him.

* * *

Today is the happiest day of Rolf von Lüstrow's nine long years of life. Not only did he get to see _dragons_ up close, his most favorite magical animal, and see his father work with the creatures, but also he got to see Harry Potter.

Years ago, a blood feud had driven Rolf's family from their ancestral home on the Continent to England with little more than the clothing on their backs. His father, Manuel, was forced to take a low-paying job at the Ministry of Magic to support his family, a far cry from his leadership of the family mercantile empire. Rolf, a stocky, blond boy with characteristic von Lüstrow wide nose and grey eyes, had discovered early what matters in life: family, hard work, pride. He didn't have much by way of possessions--his classmates all had nice clothing, new toys, candy. Rolf had his pride.

He worked hard, driven to learn language and culture. He learned of the divide between the pureblood community in Britain and those of mixed ancestry. He learned firsthand of the bigotry and intolerance among his classmates, few of whom, he was shocked to discover, recognized the von Lüstrow name as one of the proud, old families.

But he also heard tales of another boy, one who too had lost everything, including his own family. A boy who had fought evil and injustice even as a baby. A boy who, it was whispered, had grown up even more impoverished than Rolf's family.

"Harry Potter will be great someday," Rolf heard his father announce at dinner one evening after it was learned of his apprenticeship to the great Albus Dumbledore. Rolf's father had actually _met_ Harry Potter that day at the Ministry and the normally dour man wore a wide smile as he told of how Harry Potter was soft-spoken and courteous and, much to his father's gratification, must have recognized and respected the older man's heritage because he took the time to shake his hand and look him in the eye as an equal.

When his birthday arrived, Rolf didn't lament the lack of presents. His mother made him a cake--chocolate, his favorite--and his little sister and he had played together all morning. But then his father Flooed home at lunch and announced that he would be taking Rolf to see something special that afternoon.

And it was glorious!

Rolf's father, as the lowest ranking Minstry official in Crouch's department, was tasked to work with the Romanian handlers to help manage the dragons for the Tournament. Rolf was placed in the stands near the front row where he could watch the competition and see his father. He was told not to leave until his father came for him, _no matter what_.

The dragons were even larger and more ferocious than he had expected. And the champions were incredible! School children who could defeat dragons! The best was watching Harry Potter, of course. The boy had held his wand high and summoned to him his broom, a Firebolt! He had flown aerobatics that Rolf could only dream of in retrieving the egg.

Rolf sits back in the stands with a wide smile, his hands raw from clapping, his voice hoarse from cheering on his hero.

* * *

Harry trudges toward the tunnel, a large, golden egg in one hand, his racing broom in the other. Though the crowd is cheering, he can only see them, not hear them, as a thick, transparent barrier has been conjured between the stands of the Quidditch stadium and the pitch, where the champions face the dragon. The barrier, as he and the other champions were told in tedious detail by Bagman before the event, serves to both protect the spectators and avert cheating, as it is warded to prevent entry by all except designated healers. Fortunately, the dragon handlers and kennels were within the barriers when it was erected.

A tremendous roar issues from the other side of the pitch and Harry hears the sound of snapping chains. He turns to see the Horntail crush one of the handlers underfoot and rip him to pieces with its foreclaws. A moment later, three other handlers, who move to restrain the deceptively agile dragon, are breathed upon and reduced to smoldering flesh. A fifth handler, a stocky man with bright red hair whom Harry recognizes as Charlie Weasley, dodges the fire only to be struck by the dragon's tail. Meter-long spikes pierce his legs and he is hurled into the wall, where he collapses into a broken heap.

Harry drops his egg, mounts his Firebolt, and flies toward the dragon, which is advancing on Charlie. Harry streaks near its head and casts a _conjunctivits_ curse on the dragon's large, yellow eyes. He is dismayed to see that, while his aim is true, the charm has no effect--it's as if the dragon were resistant to the spell. Harry turns his broom about and repeats the maneuver, but again without success.

The dragon, noticing Harry, roars mightily and leaps into the air to follow him. After several evasive moves, easier on the broom than for the beast, Harry notes with alarm that the dragon, no longer restrained, has realized that it can escape and attack the crowd by flying over the crystalline walls surrounding the pitch. Seeing it change course to do just that, Harry pivots to fly back toward the beast. He takes aim with his wand as he approaches.

Dodging a short burst of flame, Harry flies over the creature's back. In a flash of inspiration, he launches an _abeoconci_ followed by a bone-breaking hex at one of the dragon's wings. _Sorry, Sirius. _The hex strikes the wing near where it attaches to the dragon's back and he hears a thunderous "CRACK." The dragon roars in fury as it falls violently to the earth, but not before grazing Harry's broom with her tail and snapping the shaft near the bristles.

Harry crash-lands into the turf near Charlie, who is immobilized by two badly broken legs. He crawls quickly to the man and, with a grunt, hefts him over his shoulders with a fireman's carry, Harry's small frame looking impossibly frail beneath Charlie's bulk.

* * *

"Father?!"

Rolf cries out in disbelief as he sees his beloved father incinerate in dragonfire. Tears fill his eyes as his face blanches in shock. He hears several of those around him scream.

"Father?" he whispers to himself, stunned. The rest of the world ceases to exist as white wisps of smoke rise from the unrecognizable mass.

He is startled by the sudden impact of the dragon's tail with the barrier nearby. The rampaging dragon continues to flail against it, cracking the thick, crystalline wall.

Those around Rolf panic. The woman next to him bolts in terror and dives over him to get away from the beast. She knocks him to the ground, catching his head with her elbow as she passes. Several others trample on the boy in their haste to escape the stands.

Numb with grief and pain, Rolf climbs slowly back to his seat. He notices that his wrist is broken and that his head bleeds freely. He considers leaving with the others, as he is the only one left in the stands, but his father had said not to leave, _no matter what_. And he would honor the man's last wishes.

He watches, grief stricken yet fascinated, as the dragon continues to assault the barrier, feathering cracks throughout. Then, it ceases its attack and eyes a small, solitary figure on the other side of the pitch.

Rolf wipes tears from his eyes with his good arm as he sees his favorite champion hurl a spell at the dragon. He wishes with all his heart for his hero, Harry Potter, to destroy the beast that took his father from him.

A terrible percussive sound is heard as the enraged dragon bashes its tail repeatedly at the crystalline wall, enraged by the spectators it can now see and even smell. Harry manages several steps. "Charlie, do you think she could break through?"

* * *

"Probably," he winces. "It should have been impossible for her to get free--nobody planned for the walls to take this much bloody abuse."

"At least she can't fly out any more."

"Huh?" Charlie looks closely at the dragon for the first time since being struck, having missed Harry's flying in his shock. "Merlin, Harry! How did you?... That should be impossible."

"Overcharged the spell pretty hard." he pants, "it's why I'm feeling a bit peaky."

The two notice a large crack forming in the barrier where the dragon has been striking it. "Oh shit," Charlie says, eloquently, as the spectators behind the wall panic.

Harry's gait slows and he sets Charlie down. "Sorry, mate. I don't have time to carry you the rest of the way and I don't think we should let it get through. Forgive me--this is probably going to hurt..." Over Charlie's protests, Harry levitates him and banishes him into the safety of the tunnel.

* * *

"Oh, Harry!" Fleur stands to watch the youngest champion, her uninjured arm held firmly by her fiancé to ensure she doesn't fall.

"What is he doing?" Robért asks, watching in fascination as the boy turns toward the dragon, his jaw set in determination.

"Harry is going to fight it," she says, breathless. She scans for Dumbledore and spots him with Madame Maxime and Headmaster Karkaroff, the three desperately trying to break a hole in the barrier, apparently unable to enter the stadium because of the wards.

"He is a fool," Robért mutters, missing the glare Fleur sends him. He pats her arm and says, "It will be an end to the Boy-Who-Lived, my love. A heroic end, a fitting one, perhaps, but an end nonetheless. Nobody can fight a dragon like that."

Fleur huffs angrily and they watch in tense silence as the boy hurls a bolt of magic at the beast with a staggering amount of power.

* * *

Harry turns toward the dragon on the far side of the pitch, where it continues to attack the wall, the spider-web array of cracks growing with each blow. He gathers, takes aim, and unleashes another _abeoconci _bone-breaker curse, this one delivering much more power than the last. In a fraction of a second, the curse traverses the pitch and strikes its unwary target.

CRACK

The dragon roars in fury as its left foreleg shatters, the _abeoconci_ reducing the imperviousness of its hide enough so that the main spell can penetrate. The creature turns toward him. Absently, Harry notices the fierce pounding in his head and the blood trailing down from his nose as he launches another curse.

CRACK

The dragon's other wing is ruined and hangs limply from its side by skin and sinew. The rampaging beast continues to hobble toward Harry. It gathers to breathe fire as scarlet ruffles of skin around its neck flare outward. Harry hurries a blast at the dragon, the power loss dropping him to his knees.

He sees the burst of dragonfire and, knowing that he is out of position to dodge, throws up a hasty transhield. The weak barrier takes the brunt of the blast before shattering into a spray of superheated stone and dying flames. Struggling to his feet, Harry notices that his own spell had missed its target, striking instead the wall far behind the beast. Bleeding and battered, Harry faces the creature, now only ten meters away, and unleashes another highly overcharged bone-shattering curse.

CRACK

Harry staggers backward and falls to the ground, barely conscious. Blood flows unchecked out of his nose and ears, the pressure in his head from so many overdriven spells, a blinding scream. He feels the earth shake as the dragon collapses onto its chest, its two front legs crippled. The beast whimpers loudly. With a muffled roar, it drives its snout into the ground, forming a tripod with neck and rear legs. It extends its tail fully as a counterbalance and pushes itself upright onto its rear legs. Balancing, the dragon unfurls the skin around its neck as it prepares to breathe fire yet again.

Harry's strength is spent and he forces himself up onto one knee and then slowly stands. He concentrates and prepares a final, overcharged strike, the last he can hope to muster from his depleted reserves.

_One of us dies now. _

Aiming at the dragon's neck just above its shoulders, he screams the incantation for an _abeoconci confringo_. His aura flares blindingly as the curse leaps from his wand. It tunnels into the hide.

CRUNCH!

The beast's spine explodes and its neck lolls at an impossible angle with its body. The dying creature falls to the ground in a bloody heap.

Harry's aura flickers and expires as he collapses, boneless, to the turf.

* * *

Fleur fumbles at the pale grey curtains to find the opening and she hears two female voices speaking quietly within. As she enters the screened area, her eyes are drawn to Harry, who lies on his back on the steel-framed hospital bed, comatose. His skin is pale, in contrast with violent black bruises and the livid red of his forehead scar. Were it not for the slow rise and fall of his chest, she could mistake him for dead.

"Why are you here?" Hermione asks, frostily. Ginny Weasley, who sits by Harry's side looks up at Fleur with narrowing eyes.

"Whatever do you mean?" Fleur asks, confused and mildly irritated at their reaction. She straightens her shoulders. "I came to see how he is doing." She pushes past Ginny and strokes Harry's forehead with a level of intimacy that raises the hackles of both human witches.

"And now you've seen him, so go, please," Hermione says quietly, folding her arms and staring at the older witch defiantly.

"I think that 'Arry would want..."

"You don't know anything about Harry, _princess_!" Ginny's high-pitched voice shrills, in contrast with the dulcet tones of the veela.

Fleur turns to the girl, indignant. "Then enlighten me, child. Tell me what you would have me know of him." Her features rime, her veela aura conveying to the younger a sense of threat--powerful, primal, territorial magic. She whispers, "Or are you are just a besotted _little girl_ with stars in her eyes?" Ginny steps back, stunned.

"There's no need to be insulting," Hermione says. Among veela, where sexuality is a prominent aspect of life, being called "little girl" after pubescence is a scathing slight. "Harry's story is his to share," she says, looking shrewdly at the older witch, "but I think that you may have one as well. Those of us who are Harry's _real _friends can tell that something has been bothering him lately. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?" Hermione puts a hand on Ginny's shoulder to embolden the younger witch.

The veela doesn't miss the emphasis Hermione had placed on the word "real". "_Non, _not at all," she sniffs. She leans down to place a gentle kiss on Harry's forehead as the nurse enters and shoos the witches from the room.

* * *

_Dark Lord Potter_

_By Rita Skeeter_

_Readers of this column will recall my exposé on the youngest Tri-Wizard champion, Harry Potter, and the unusual circumstances of his selection. By now, the tragic events of the first task are well documented: Mr. Potter is reported to have slain an adult dragon and in the process suffered grievous injury. The dragon escaped confinement and killed four of its handlers, Jas Florsan, Manuel Müller, William Macabee, and Raoul Lebouf, and injured a fifth, Charles Weasley._

_Your intrepid reporter has discovered that Mr. Potter now clings to life, his broken body comatose in the hospital wing of Hogwarts. Hogwarts medical personnel declined to comment on his worsening condition, however, first-hand reports indicate that it's likely Mr. Potter may never fully recover._

_One point that has not escaped notice is how Mr. Potter was able to defeat the dragon. Speaking on condition of anonymity, a knowledgeable Ministry official confirmed that the Fudge administration is taking this matter very seriously, saying that "Only magic of the darkest sort could have killed that beast." _

_Harry Potter is the only known survivor of the Killing Curse, the darkest magic known. He is a known parselmouth and has a history of involvement with dark magic. He was reputed to be the Heir of Slytherin and was implicated in the infamous Hogwarts "Chamber of Secrets" incident two years ago. While it is not known what transpired, Mr. Potter received an award for "Special Services to the School," conferred by none other than his mentor, Albus Dumbledore, who was reinstated shortly thereafter to the post of Headmaster. We would like to know what these "services" entailed and if any involved use of dark magic or rites. _

_Lucius Malfoy, former member of the Board of Governers at Hogwarts, says, "It is unfortunate that the Chamber of Secrets affair has been closed, as there were several noteworthy irregularities surrounding those unhappy times."_

_Ronald Weasley, close friend to Harry Potter and brother to the injured handler, was unsurprised at the turn of events. He adds, "Harry Potter is a selfish individual. " When asked whether he knew if Mr. Potter had participated in any dark magic rituals, he had this to say: "I don't know what he's done, but it's not natural. I wouldn't be surprised if he had undergone dark rituals." We remind the readers that You-Know-Who is believed to have participated in dark rituals himself to increase his magical power and reserves. _

_While we join our readers in wishing Mr. Potter a rapid recovery, we must ask ourselves whether we are trading one powerful Dark Lord for another. Would we not be safer if Mr. Potter, who has the capacity if not the inclination to take You-Know-Who's place, were to remain in his coma?_

* * *

"Oh Ronnikins," George calls in a sing-song voice. "Time for a little family chat." He grabs Ron's arm roughly.

"Yes, oh brother of mine. Time to get ickle brother to spill." Fred takes the other arm and the two frog march their younger brother to an empty classroom, where a red-faced Ginny awaits.

"Explain, dammit!" She slams a copy of the Daily Prophet onto the desk in front of her youngest brother.

Ron pales at the headline, then fires back, defiantly, "What's the big deal? All I did was sit and talk a bit about Harry with Percy and that Skeeter woman. It's not like anything I said wasn't true..."

Ginny is beside herself in anger. "What do you mean not true? You have Harry sounding like the return of You-Know-Who!" She seethes, "I remind you, _your_ name is on that award too. The one for saving _my_ life, you git!"

"You know, it's rather bad form to accuse your best friend of being a dark wizard," George says.

"Especially after he just saved your brother's life," Fred continues.

"Sort of makes you look like a pathetic, sodden tosser... and I mean that in the nicest possible way--wait, no I don't."

Ginny interrupts, "Back up. Percy was the 'Ministry official' that Skeeter quoted?"

"Yeah, but he really didn't want his name used. Stuck up git. It would have doubled what she gave him for the interview."

"Wait, she _paid_ him?" Ginny pales.

"Yeah. He got ten Galleons and I got twenty," he says proudly.

Fred whistles. "Wonder what Charlie will say when he hears this..."

"Forget Charlie, what about Mum, when she finds out her baby boy is a whore?"


	7. Rosicrucians and Revelations

Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

My thanks go to beta readers ParseltonguePhoenix, Fenraellis, and Vlad the Inhaler. And to an anonymous reviewer who goes by "Diogenes" and who offers exceptionally good criticism.

* * *

CHAPTER 7

Rosicrucians and Revelations

* * *

"All right, Albus, it's time for answers. You know damned well who went after Harry and we're not leaving until you tell us!" Sirius folds his arms and stands menacingly in front of the Headmaster's desk. Remus takes a less aggressive stance near the entrance of the office, ready to signal for Sirius to transform if anyone were to approach. His visage, accented by pale skin and darkened eyes from a full moon days prior, lends him a look that is equally feral.

"Yes, indeed, I do have my suspicions. Now, would you two gentlemen please sit down?" The Headmaster directs some magic into his tone to sharpen his voice of command and the men comply immediately. The Headmaster puts up a complicated warding spell on the door and lowers his aura, his voice becoming euphonious. "This story will take some time to tell, and I do not relish the thought of the neck pain I would get were I to tell it with you standing there, Sirius.

"Lemon drop? No? Very well then. Tell me, Remus..." He opens a drawer of his desk and recovers a long, slender item wrapped in blue felt. "What do you make of this?" He hands the werewolf the stiletto that was buried in Harry's chest when he arrived in the infirmary.

Remus unwraps the knife and studies it. The pommel, hilt, and blade are finely crafted and well balanced. The handle is wrapped with black leather, softened dragon hide by its appearance, to ensure a true grip even in cold or wet conditions. The blade is nearly as long as the span from Remus's palm to his elbow and the pommel is half that length. The blade is dual-edged and tapers gently, with a pair of blood grooves on either flat that extend from tip to hilt. Remus spots a tiny glyph on the pommel, half the size of a Knut, shaped like a rose with a cross in front, the whole surrounded a circle of astrological symbols.

"You notice, then."

"Yes," he replies distantly, his mind elsewhere. He hands the dagger to Sirius to allow him to inspect it.

"Have you seen such a sigil before, Remus?"

"Not that one, precisely, but similar ones. If the cross were set within a heart, then it resembles the symbol of the Reformation, Martin Luther's seal. I know there are a couple of Templar castles in Damascas with a similar sign, including the astrolabe. And, if I'm not mistaken, it also resembles the _spiritus_, _animas_, and _corpus_ emblem of the Order of Alchemists."

"Full marks, Remus! You are a credit to your schooling," he smiles at the younger man, who scowls in return. "I too have encountered such a symbol, this very one in fact. Have either of you heard of the Rosicrucians?"

"The Order of the Rosy Cross?" Sirius interrupts, "I thought they were legend!"

"No, they are quite real, I assure you. What I am about to reveal must never be shared. I shall require a wizard's oath to that effect if you wish to know more." He sits back and folds his arms. His lurid, lime green robes embroidered with animated, gold faeries contrast with the seriousness of his demeanor. The two men look at each other for a moment and then oblige the elderly wizard.

"The brotherhood guards the ancient knowledge of Runescriving, a magical practice that is a close cousin to alchemy and, like alchemy, guards its secrets jealously. Many centuries ago, there was a schism in the Runescrives between brother apprentices, men who had studied under the same master. The younger was Paracelsus, the renowned alchemist. The other, Rosenkreutz of the Germelschausen family in what is now Germany, went on to found the Order of the Rosy Cross.

"As I understand it, the reason for the division ultimately centered on control versus free will. Paracelsus believed in careful selection of disciples such that their philosophies align with his own, but then allowing them, like his mentor did with him, to maintain their free will. Rosenkreutz, on the other hand, required that each disciple bear a glyph of control that enables the eldest of the Order--him, originally--to command obedience of his juniors, effectively rendering them magically powerful slaves.

The latter school proliferated, with over than one hundred members at last estimate. The former school, followers of Paracelsus, comprise only three today, though one is but an adept and another, a shade of his former self. This is due, in no small part, to a concerted effort by the Rosicrucians to eradicate Paracelsus's progeny, whom they refer to as _Voleurs_, or "thieves." The Order of the Rosy Cross is now headed by a French gentleman referred to only by title, Chevalier."

"Three, you say?" Remus fixes the Headmaster with a stare. "You and Harry, obviously, with Harry the adept." The Headmaster appears mildly surprised. "Yes, Albus, I know you're a Runescrive--Nicholas Flamel was your mentor and he trained with Paracelsus centuries ago. What I want to know is who is the third?"

"Voldemort." The two younger men blink. "After he left Hogwarts, Tom Riddle, as he was known then, found apprenticeship with one of the line of Paracelsus's other protegés. Many of the power-enhancing rituals that that he undertook derive from Runescriving glyphs. The ones I suspect he used are quite dark, and no doubt contributed to his transformation, both physical and spiritual, into the beast that he became. Incidentally, I will not teach those runes to Harry, no matter how desperate things get--Harry would make for a more terrible Dark Lord than Tom, if he were so corrupted. Tom ultimately killed his mentor to break the apprenticeship bond, but not before tapping him for knowledge and stealing a partial copy of the Master Codex. We can take small comfort that the line he usurped did not have the extensive knowledge that Nicholas or I had, though I think we all can agree that what he did gain was substantial enough..."

"Let me get this straight," Sirius growls. "Not only does Harry have to destroy Voldemort when he returns, but as a boy, he is learning an obscure branch of magic that has made him over a hundred powerful, mortal enemies who are hell bent on assassinating him at all cost?"

"Yes, though I wouldn't have put it quite that way, that's the gist of it."

"Brilliant. Remind me whose side you're on again?"

"Harry's, Sirius," the Headmaster says, bitterly. "I agree, this does complicate matters for Harry, but you cannot deny that he has a hard path to walk. I'm trying to equip him for the challenge as best as I know how and I stand by my decision to apprentice him. I take it you would have him face Voldemort without such knowledge?"

"I'd bloody well have let him know what he's facing now, so he has at least a chance of surviving! Let me guess, Harry had no clue what he was getting into before he took your oath and you started him down this 'path' of yours? Does he even know now?"

"Not completely, no. He knew that this was his only way for him to learn magic that would help him survive Voldemort. He knew he would be making sacrifices by becoming my apprentice and, may I remind you, _he deemed those sacrifices_ _worth making_."

"Manipulative bastard!" Sirius roars and Remus has to restrain his friend. "All this talk of free will, but where's Harry's choice in this matter? He's lying there in the hospital now because of decisions _you_ made for him! Not him, you!"

"Please control yourself, Sirius. I did what I had to, for the greater good."

"Is that what we will carve on his headstone, Albus? It could equally well go onto Lily's and James's, you know," Remus comments, dryly. "I agree with Sirius. Harry has a right to know. Everything, Albus, no secrets. Get an oath from him if you need, but I'm warning you, if you keep these kinds of things from him, you'll destroy his trust for sure, and I've learned trust is a rare commodity with Harry." He grimaces. "We cannot hope to undo this, but we can at least prepare him to survive as best we can."

The Headmasters sighs. "I see your point and yes, I will endeavor to explain matters to Harry at the first opportunity."

He replaces the dagger in his desk and he pulls out his pensieve. "Gentlemen, I was wondering if you could explain something to me. When I recovered Harry's wand after the incident with the dragon, I took the liberty of casting a _prior incantato_ incantation on his wand. I found that Harry employed a most unusual spell and I was wondering if you could help me understand it better..."

* * *

"Wotcher, guvs."

"Tonks! You're back! Pull one up. I'll buy this round, but you have to spill it about the kid."

"Deal! I need a pint or three." She takes her seat among the half-dozen junior aurors, all classmates from the Academy, and she leans back, her leather boots up on the corner of the table.

A few minutes later, the pints arrive and she starts to speak, her Academy chums listening, envious of the purple-haired rookie who drew the Harry Potter gig. "...So King and me go with Ponce, that's Percy Weasley by the way, and Harry and Dumbledore up to the old man's office. Harry doesn't say much, kid's pretty nervous. We _prior incantato_ his wand to see just what freaky shit he was throwing at that dragon and guess what we got... lemon drops. Conjurations of a single drop as far back as we can go--probably forty-odd spells. Old man claims he 'accidentally' used the kid's wand to make himself treats when he was visiting the ward."

"Hah!" a heavy-set auror exclaims, "Probably cleared it out once all that about dark magic came up in the Prophet."

"Real quick on the uptake, eh Danner?" She cuffs her colleague playfully. "Yeah, so Barty Crouch's errand boy goes apeshit. Demands we arrest Dumbledore as an 'accessory' and starts quoting ministry regs, basically stuffing up the whole deal. King puts his hand on the boy's shoulder, pulls him aside, and gives him... 'the voice.'"

The aurors nod knowingly, familiar with how the taciturn man can humble young aurors with only a few words.

"Reins him in, Ponce backs down, but still insists that we arrest the kid. Get this--you all remember Charlie Weasley? Not too bright, kinda stinky sometimes, but good at Quidditch? He was the handler who survived that day. So Ponce is basically ordering us to arrest the kid who just saved his brother's life--gives you an idea who we're dealing with here. Dumbledore gives him a look, probably doing that jedi mind-reading stuff. Muggle thing, Tim. Then pulls out his pensieve and all of us, except Harry, who has fallen asleep, dive into the old man's memory.

"Let me tell you, that kid is scary--you do _not_ want to get on his bad side. I kid you not--blew the head off a fully grown Horntail with a _confringo_."

"Bloody hell!"

"Yeah. After he shattered both its front legs, ripped off its wings," she ticks off her fingers. "And--get this--blasted a hole through a bleeding meter-thick Tarsi barrier."

The aurors are gobsmacked.

"Damnest thing I ever saw, guvs. So we pop out, kid's curled up in his chair asleep, looking like he's all of about nine--he'd just got out of the hospital that morning, mind, from a three-week nap following the worst cast of magical exhaustion ever recorded at that deathtrap they call a school. Ponce starts spouting about dark magic, like he'd know it from his arse, and King and I step in and say we just saw some bone breakers and a blasting hex. Not exactly standard fourth-year fare, but I figure the kid's Dumbledore's apprentice for a reason, right? Ponce starts up again, there's a big argument, blah, blah. Short of it is, I end up having to Floo back to HQ and hoof it to Hogwarts with a training dummy from Range Four, one of the ones we use to record casting power.

"We go down to the pitch and set up the dummy. Dumbledore asks the kid to cast a stunner. Tells him to do it hard, but not to overcharge. Good advice too, since he only just got out of the ward and is barely vertical. So the kid does. Take a guess what he scored." She folds her arms smugly. "Remember--this is the very first spell out of his wand in almost a month, being cast by a fourteen year old kid who was comatose for three weeks."

"Eleven." Tonks shakes her head and gestures "up" with her hand.

"Eighteen." More gestures.

"Twenty-two. And only because I believe the dragon story."

"A lot. And that's all that needs to be said, Auror Tonks," a deep voice booms.

"King, glad you could make it. Pull one up. Just telling my 'esteemed colleagues' about the kid." She mumbles "...who destroyed it later with a _reductor_."

"Tonks!" Kingsley warns, smirking, as he takes a chair from a nearby empty table and joins the junior aurors.

"Bloody hell!" Taylor, one of the aurors, says. The others shake their heads in awe.

Tonks continues, her voice playful, "Kid may be tetchy, but he packs some power."

"He does more than that. Did you notice anything about his wand work?" Kingsley asks.

"Yeah--it's bloody perfect. I mean, flawless. And his stunner had a B-twist. I didn't learn that until second year at the Academy."

He smiles at his young partner. "Glad you spotted it too. I'd bet a stack of Galleons that Harry Potter's had some extensive training. His blasting and bone-breaking curses are works of art--probably nobody in the corps could do better. Though in the dragon battle, I caught him using a rare modification I haven't seen in ages." He raises an eyebrow at Tonks, who sticks her tongue out. "It gives me a clue who trained him which, if true, explains his casting brilliance, but is even more unsettling. And I still can't believe Potter could have learned what he did in just the few months since Dumbledore apprenticed him. You can't get to that level of skill without a year or more of solid training--there's something going on that doesn't add up."

"So what did Moody say?" she asks, changing the subject. As junior auror, she was tasked with checking in the remains of the ruined dummy and filing the initial trip report while her partner caught up with his old acquaintance.

"Here's where the boy's story gets, let's say, really... impressive." He pauses to observe the incredulous expressions of the aurors. They do not disappoint. "Apparently, Moody is teaching them about the Unforgivables in his Defense class. He puts each kid under the _Imperius_." The rookies look agog at the senior auror. "Potter throws it off, twice, including one at a full strength." Tonks buries her face in her hands and shakes her head.

"But that's not all. Moody goads the Potter kid into trying out a _Cruciatus_ and he gives him an auror 'Exit Special.'" The entire table of rookie aurors wince, each recalling recent first-hand experience with the torture curse. "So, the second time he puts him under..."

"Cor! Hold on a min'--_second_ time?" Tonks can't believe what she is hearing.

"Yeah. Kid's held under the _Cruciatus_ for a solid minute. Then pops up and asks for a repeat. Bloody tough." He grins.

"No kidding. I can't believe that Dumbledore let Moody get away with this!" Taylor is beyond amazed.

"Dumbledore and McGonagall were both there, Tim."

"Holy shit!"

Kingsley continues, his leer positively evil. "The _second_ time he's under, he fights it off and, while still under the _Cruciatus_, pulls his wand out and nearly takes Moody's wand arm off with a cutting curse." The imposing auror leans back, arms crossed, a wide grin on his face. "Now that's what I call impressive."

* * *

_Harry,_

_This parchment has been charmed so that only you can read it, but destroy it when you're through. I'm not sure how much I trust Dumbledore._

_Thanks for saving my life, mate, and no hard feelings about you banishing me like that. I'd rather walk with a cane for an extra month than push pansies._

_Please accept this gift on behalf of me and the other handlers. She was rampaging and probably would have killed more of us had you not stopped her like you did, and if she had gotten into the stands, we'd have had a serious international incident that probably would have ended with our having to shut down the preserve. In the package, you should find a shirt, leggings, and boots made from the hide of Blackbird, the Horntail you slayed._

_The shirt and leggings are charmed so you can wear them as is or under your clothes and be equally comfortable. As long as you wear them regularly, they will resize as you grow. Horntail hide is tough as hell and will turn a knife (maybe even a sword). They might be a bit stiff at first, but will loosen with wearing. Given the kind of scrapes you get into, I suggest that you keep them on all the time. _

_The boots aren't charmed. They just look damned cool and should last forever. There are only a few Horntails left in the world and their hide is so treasured that almost nobody would think to make boots from them. But, given what you did, I pulled a few strings to give you a pair to match your armor. "_Campionul Dragonului_," (what they call you down here, which translates to "Dragon Champion" in Romanian) is already legend. Walk into any wizarding pub in Romania wearing those boots and you won't have to buy your drinks! (Or your whores, but don't tell mum I told you that!)_

_Harry, I need to tell you this though. Something doesn't seem right with what happened that day. We can't find a reason why Blackbird was so temperamental, why conjunctivitus couldn't touch her, or how she got free. Those restraints have redundant strengthening charms on them and no one has ever seen one break, much less two. Someone is trying to do you in, so watch your back! I'm not sure how much Dumbledore knows, but I'd bet my Gringotts vault that he knows something. _

_Sorry about my prats of brothers and what they said about you in the Daily Prophet. Perce and Ron have already gotten knocked around some by me and the twins and I'm afraid to ask what Gin-Gin has planned for them. If you ever need anything, just ask._

_Charlie_

* * *

Harry gives a sausage to the owl, pens a quick reply to Charlie, and sends her on her way. He is happy that this late breakfast is to be his last in the ward. He is vexed, though not surprised, at being in last place in the tournament. He had been in a coma for three weeks, suffering from extreme magical exhaustion, followed by another week of bed rest to recover his strength. He missed the second task, one designed by Beauxbatons and having something to do with bypassing a series of wards. Fleur, of course, won handily, her excellence in charms and her natural agility seeing her through. She was followed by Krum, who got to the end mostly unscathed, though missing the time limit. Cedric was a distant third, disabled early by one of the wards.

Harry regrets that he did not have a chance to compete--with his magical sight and background in both ancient and modern magical runes, he would have made mincemeat of the wards. Though he has yet to bind the focusing rune, which will lend speed and efficacy to his spells, it would not have been as important for this task, which was more about finesse.

As summarized by Bagman--who visited Harry immediately upon his waking and who, Harry learned, vigorously argued for a delay in the second task until Harry could participate, as it stands now--Harry has only 32 points, far behind Krum, at 59 points, Cedric, at 63 points, and Fleur, at 68 points. Harry feels that something is a bit off about Bagman, but he can't quite place it. Fortunately, he has a respite until February, when the next task is scheduled.

Harry reflects that he has been seeing more of Ginny Weasley than he feels entirely comfortable with of late. She has been visiting a few times a day since he woke, each time staying several tedious minutes in stilted, shy conversation or silence. He prefers the silence and has, on a few occasions, feigned sleep to avoid having to speak with her. Harry hasn't seen Fleur at all, however, and is surprised by how bothered he is by the absence of his friend.

Hermione enters the room, her bushy hair in rare "poofy" form, and beams at Harry. "You're looking much better!" She drops her bag and takes the chair next to Harry's bed, moving Charlie's package to her lap.

"Thanks. I'm feeling better too and I can't wait to get back." He grins as he takes a large bite of toast. As he sips his pumpkin juice, Hermione opens the box Harry had just received from Charlie.

"Harry," she gasps, pulling out the shirt and leggings. Harry notices that they are made from black dragon hide, resembling fine leather, but imbricated by a shimmering layer of fine black dragon scale, each opalescent scale tinier than a Knut. Harry can't help but admire the armor's beauty.

"Pretty cool, eh? Charlie sent them this morning. I'm going to start wearing it everywhere, I think, with how 'exciting' my life has been lately."

Hermione can't take her eyes off the treasure she's holding. "Harry, do you have any idea how rare armor like this is? You can only make it from a very large, adult dragon, and only one proper set can be made from a dragon. I've read they are supposed to have magical properties..."

"Hermione?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Is there anything you haven't read about?"

She snorts. "Probably not."

Harry pauses for a moment, thinking over how to say what's on his mind. "Can I ask some advice on what I'm sure is a dumb question?" Hermione nods as Harry turns serious. "What's up with Ginny? She's been in here a lot since I woke up..."

"She visited several times a day when you were in coma, Harry."

"Really? Okay, this is awkward. Let me guess--it's not just because I saved her brother's life?"

"Right in one."

Harry sighs. "So she still has the crush?"

"Yes," she says, quietly. "Though that's not the whole reason." She quirks an eyebrow at him. "You do you remember that there is a Yule Ball coming up, don't you, Harry?"

Harry groans. He could try asking Fleur, but with her being with another man, it seems inappropriate. In a flash of insight, he smiles impishly. "Hermione, would you fancy going to the Yule Ball with me?"

Hermione blushes. "I'm sorry, Harry. I've already promised someone else that I would go with him." Harry visibly deflates as she says this.

Harry's eyes narrow slightly. "Ron?"

"Hell no!" She covers her mouth in shock over what she said.

Harry sighs in relief, happy that he won't have to consider his response had she said, "yes." His relationship with Ron is very shaky and Hermione is one of his few close friends.

"Who, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Viktor."

"Krum?"

She nods, blushing again. "Congratulations. You're going to be the envy of all the witches there. I'm sure there's a story here--how did you two hook up?"

"Viktor is so sweet..." She sighs, then looks at her watch and curses under her breath, her demeanor changing instantly to serious. "But I'll have to tell you about that some other time--I have to leave now or I'll be late for potions."

"Hermione?" She pauses. "What am I going to do about Ginny? I do care about her feelings and I don't want to lead her on by asking her when I don't really feel that way about her. We just don't have anything in common, not that I can tell. Besides, wasn't she with Dean?"

"Leave it to me, Harry. I think she's holding a torch for you, but she will say yes to Dean if she knows you won't be asking her."

* * *

_Dear Fleur, _

_Congratulations on winning the second stage--I'm proud of you!_

_As you might have heard, I've nearly recovered and am due to get out of the hospital today (finally!) I've missed you--the infirmary can get pretty lonely. _

_This weekend is a Hogsmeade weekend and I would be honored if you'd consider meeting me there for a cup of tea or a butterbeer. I feel as if we haven't had a chance to catch up in ages. I'd love to hear about how you have been, how classes are going, how Gabrielle is doing. It's hard to believe it's been over a month!_

_Please send your reply with Hedwig. She'll wait for you. I'm free the whole day, so my schedule is pretty flexible. _

_Yours,_

_Harry_

* * *

"Harry, please gentle your wand movement, like so." The Headmaster makes a sweeping, overhand motion, then points the tip of his wand downward, twirls it counterclockwise, and ends with an angular diagonal flick. Motes of pink sparks encircle the wand tip and then fade into a diffuse glow that expands to fill the room. Harry notes that when the glowing cloud reaches the two disillusioned, puffy armchairs in the corner of the room, they appear bathed in a vibrant, pink hue. The Headmaster mutters an incantation and the glow fades. "Now your turn."

Harry attempts the spell again, but fumbles the flick at the end. Instead of a gradual expansion, the motes flare and the chairs flash brightly for an instant, as if on fire, and then fade.

"An admirable attempt, though not quite there."

"Sir, what use is this charm? I mean, I can already see things that are disillusioned or invisible..."

"There are a few obscure charms that can overcome _visum_-enhanced sight, Harry, though none that I know of that can hide from this charm. Moreover, allow me demonstrate another benefit you may find amusing..." He repeats the charm. Harry looks at the chairs, but sees nothing special, just a brighter glow than without the charm. "Look at your hands, Harry."

He does and is surprised to see brilliant, glowing runes on his hands and wrists, remnants of the runes he has joined. He looks at his mentor, hoping to catch a glimpse of the older man's runes, something that had been denied him thus far, but is disappointed to see only plain skin.

"You cannot view mine, Harry, because they are sealed--the charm works by amplifying your ability to see residual seepage of magic through the runes as foci. Mine have no such leakage, an effect of the last rune I shall teach you, years hence: the final focus, the _kleinofloios_. It is exceedingly difficult to join, requiring assiduous study and nearly super-human concentration. Though it is most useful--a side effect is that it strengthens and seals one' soul from invasion. With your scar, such as it is, an open invitation to Tom, I fear that it shall become necessary in the future.

"Of the living practitioners of our art, only the Chevalier and I have managed this step. Sadly, this also means that I can join no further runes--unfortunate, in my case, for I have discovered a delightful script that would have kept my feet warm..."


	8. Yule

Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

My thanks go to beta readers ParseltonguePhoenix, Fenraellis, and Vlad the Inhaler. And to the DLP crew for their critique.

Note: Starting at Chapter 9, the story will be rated 'M' for language and some adult situations.

* * *

CHAPTER 8

Yule

* * *

"Harry, it's good to see you. You look so much better!" The veela approaches the table with radiant grace. Dressed in a white, satin shirt and champagne slacks, she looks like an angel.

"Hi Fleur." Harry says with a genuine smile. He has missed her. He rises from the table, takes her proffered hand, and bows, kissing it briefly, his lessons from Sirius coming into the fore. He is careful not to allow the kiss to linger beyond the bounds of propriety--a proper greeting, not an overt flirtation. Until he knows more about the other man in her life, he doesn't want to chance giving the wrong impression. "It's good to see you too, fair maiden," he jests.

Holding her chair out for her, he seats Fleur and then himself. "I hope you don't mind my choosing this tea shop. The other, Madam Puddifoot's, is a bit, um..."

"Tacky, _oui_. This is much better." She smiles, perfect teeth framed in soft, dark pink lips. Harry catches himself staring at her and blinks before pouring tea into small, ceramic cups. Fleur notices a hint of shiny black beneath Harry's light blue, button-down shirt. "Harry?" she questions, reaching across the table to gently tug his collar open further.

"Oh, yeah. Forgot I was wearing it." Harry unfastens a few buttons and exposes the blue-black scale armor beneath.

"I've never seen something so magnificent." Harry is surprised to find himself blushing at the thought of such a breathtakingly beautiful woman gazing at his chest in admiration, if only to admire his undergarments. Her attention also elicits another response, one that causes him to shift uncomfortably in his seat and slam his Occlumency shields into place.

"It was a gift from Charlie Weasley and the other handlers." He holds his teacup awkwardly as Fleur's fingertips continue to stroke the strong, yet flexible, scales. "He was the one I saved in the stadium that day."

She sits back in her chair, her eyes wide. "From the dragon you fought? I still can't believe you did that--that was incredibly brave!" She slaps him on his shoulder playfully. "And incredibly dangerous. I was so worried about you!"

Harry blushes at her compliment. After the affair, he hasn't enjoyed talking with anyone about it, though somehow doing so with Fleur doesn't seem so uncomfortable. "Charlie managed to get this made for me from the hide. I really like too it since, well, people have this habit of trying to kill me and I feel safer in it."

"It suits you," she says, admiringly.

The two chat amicably for almost an hour, their conversation somewhat less facile than Harry had remembered, as if there were something between them now that wasn't there before. He gathers his Gryffindor courage and asks the question that is been prominent in his mind, "Fleur, may I ask you a personal question?"

"Harry?"

"Before the first task, I saw you walking to Hogsmeade with a man. You both seemed... happy to be in each others' company."

Fleur looks stunned for a moment before she recovers her practiced guardedness.

"Who is he?" Harry asks, his voice tightening slightly. He is a bit surprised by the intensity of the feelings he has for his friend.

There is a long pause. "Robért Dupuis, my intended," she says, flatly. She passes her wand over her left hand and an elegant diamond solitaire appears, set on a platinum band, the hue matching her hair perfectly. An instant later, she replaces the _glamour_ charm over the ring.

Harry swallows and looks down at his half-empty teacup. He tops off Fleur's cup, his own, sets the kettle on the trivet, and looks up. His expression is a pinched smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Congratulations to both of you." He swallows heavily. "Robért is a very lucky man and I would be honored to meet him someday..." He looks down at his hands.

Fleur looks crushed. "Harry, I..."

"Fleur, there's nothing to explain," he interrupts, touching his finger gently to her lips and causing her to shiver with the intimacy of the gesture. "I am and will always be your friend. If you're happy, then I'm happy for the two of you." His words and smile are warm, but the witch doesn't miss the pain in his eyes or the slight quaver of his voice.

"Well then," he says with finality. "I'm afraid I need to get back to the castle. Lots to make up, you know, lying on my back for a month." He tosses some Sickles onto the table and stands, offering the witch his hand. Fleur rises as well and the two look at each other in awkward silence.

"Goodbye, my friend." Harry turns to walk away, the soft touch of her fingers trailing over his own. Fleeting intimacy before cold separation.

* * *

"Harry, I must say, you've made excellent progress. At this rate, you may be able to join the focus rune before the new year!" The Headmaster leans back into his leather chair, a satisfied smile on his face.

"Thanks, Albus." Harry smiles from across his desk, pleased that at least one of his plans is moving according to schedule.

Since recovering from his injury, he has redoubled his efforts to excel, both in the classroom and in his private lessons. These efforts have paid off handsomely, if at the cost of alienating his classmates further. His former friends won't even look at him--only Hermione and the Weasley twins associate with him at all, and they are busy with their own pursuits. Harry has taken to wearing his invisibility cloak between classes to avoid the annoyance of dealing with his peers.

"Can I ask a question, sir?" Harry twists the toe of his new trainers into the flagstone floor of the Heamaster's office.

"You just did, but please, ask me another." The old man steeples his fingers and readies himself for what he knows is on his pupil's mind. Harry's surface thoughts are intense enough that it doesn't take much of a Legilimens to read them.

"Who else is trying to kill me? I know about the Death Eaters already, but we know they didn't do the thing with the dragon." His eyes narrow and the air in the room chills. _My, the boy's aura is getting strong_. "I think you know more than you've told me... This has something to do with you and my apprenticeship, doesn't it?"

"Alas, Harry, I had hoped to delay this discussion, but you are correct. I do need to tell you more. Your Godfather and Professor Lupin were most adamant about this. Tell me, Harry, what you know of the Rosicrucians..."

* * *

After an hour's discourse on the history of Runescriving and the ancient feud between the schools, Harry finds himself becoming increasingly furious. "Albus," he interrupts, incredulously, "why didn't you tell me any of this before I started?"

"Would it have mattered? Would you have turned down my offer had you known?" The Headmaster's voice is frustratingly placid.

"That's not the point!" Harry leaps to his feet, shouting. The portraits on the walls of the office mutter loudly about the lack of decorum. "I deserve to know what I'm getting into so that I can make informed decisions. I'm not just some pawn..." He sits heavily onto his chair and lowers his voice. "I thought you respected me more than that, sir."

"Harry, I'm very sorry. I forget, sometimes, that with you I am not dealing with a child, but rather an adult in a child's body. I should have mentioned this before, but please believe me that there was something of which I wanted to be sure..."

"Don't lie to me," he seethes, his teeth clenched. "You knew the Rosicrucians were behind this since the train. You could have told me that much at least."

"Indeed, I did, and I could and should have. But I wanted one more datum before I spoke with you."

"And that is?"

"Fleur Delacour." Harry leaning back into the soft chair, stunned. "Her father and fiancé are both Rosicrucians. I believe it highly likely that she was tasked by one or both to spy on you for the Order of the Rosy Cross."

Harry buries his head in his hands. "You're certain about this?" He has to ask, but he knows the answer in his heart.

"I am sorry, Harry, but yes. I know this is hard for you, since I understand that the two of you are close."

"Do you think Fleur is a member too?" He asks.

"No, I don't believe so. Not yet, at least. I haven't seen any runes and I do not believe that she even knows of the Order in a formal way. But, as I'm sure you're aware, she is an extraordinary young witch, intelligent and resourceful. She is being trained by her father in intelligence gathering and analysis and I somehow doubt that she is completely naïve about what the men in her life are up to."

* * *

"How dare you, Mother. I will _not_ be attending the Ball with that, that creature!" Fleur looks at the Delacour matron, a tall, slender, silver-haired half-veela who, though over sixty years of age, looks closer to twenty five. The woman's robes, the color of old lace, are tailored masterfully to accentuate a perfect figure and unnaturally long legs. Her jewelry, blue diamonds set in white gold and platinum, is understated and refined, matching and accentuating her cold, blue-grey eyes.

"Indeed you shall, _little girl."_ The elder veela's features harden into an icy, withering glare, her mature aura lending authority to her diktat that forces Fleur into instinctive submission. "You have a duty to your family and I will not hear discussion to the contrary."

"But, this Malfoy is loathsome in the extreme! If I cannot go with Robért, should I not attend with Harry Potter instead? Would his fame not be of value to our family? And Father has asked me to..."

"What your Father wishes is unimportant, dear. This is a social and political matter, which is my purview. Fame?" she laughs, her mellifluous voice carrying an undertone of derision. "You must learn, child, that fame is a fickle, ephemeral thing. We seek to ally power, not fame. The Malfoy line is strong, both in France and England, and we have sided with them in the past. I have made this entreaty to encourage a stronger alliance with them in the future." She pauses to look out the window of Fleur's room in the castle. She sniffs haughtily as she notices the grim roughness of the Hogwarts stonework. She turns to her daughter, who is standing, her head still lowered slightly in deference to the older veela. "Who knows--I have yet to find a proper match for Gabrielle. If this Malfoy heir is, as yet, unattached, perhaps we would benefit from assigning her to him?"

Fleur looks up, her high cheekbones flushed with anger. "Please. I have met the scion of the Malfoy family, this... Draco," Fleur spits his name acidly. "If you see strength in him, then you are blind. He is entirely inadequate for Gabrielle."

She takes a step toward the elder veela. "Mother, it would be wise for you to consider Harry Potter for Gabrielle instead; he is the head of an ancient house as well." She looks the taller witch in the eye, as if issuing a silent challenge, "He and Draco Malfoy are bitter rivals. If I were to attend with the Malfoy heir, it would threaten any possible alliance between our house and Potter's."

The elder witch hesitates for a moment and then waves her hand dismissively at her daughter. "Tosh, I care not for trifles. This Harry Potter is of little consequence. The matter is settled--you shall attend with Malfoy." She leaves the room with sublime grace, her voice trailing behind her, "...and I recommend the ivory dress..."

* * *

"Mr. Potter, a word please." Harry's former Head of House stops him as he is leaving his transfiguration class, his battered bag looped over his shoulder.

Harry turns around and approaches his instructor as the last students file out. "Minerva?" They are alone, so it is safe to use her given name.

"Harry. I've heard a rumor that you have no date for the Ball. Is that true?"

"Yes." He sets his bag atop one of the polished wooden tables in the classroom. Each student shares a table with a partner, their two chairs set so that they can face the front of the room, where the Professor gives her demonstrations.

"Interesting. Were you thinking of asking anyone? You only have a few days, you know." Her voice is warm, completely unlike the stern persona she projects in her classes.

"No. I don't plan to go." Harry gives her a sly smile, though his eyes betray a hint of pain behind the cheekiness.

"Mr. Potter!" She lowers her voice, "Harry, let me remind you that as a champion you are obligated to take a companion from one of the schools. I will not have my House's reputation sullied..."

"Minerva, technically I'm not part of your House anymore. And as for the date, there's really nobody I am interested in taking."

"Oh?" Professor McGonagall raises an eyebrow. "How about the Beauxbatons champion, Miss Delacour? I see that you two are quite friendly." Harry shakes his head. "Even we teachers were young once, Harry. I can see you two have feelings for each other."

"She and I may be good friends, but she's with another." Harry pauses for a moment, his green eyes pained. Closing them, he turns, walking slowly past a row of tables to the opposite side of the room. "Fleur is engaged to a man who is not a student. She can't bring her fiancé to the ball, so she chose to accept an invitation to accompany... Malfoy instead." He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "This was after she said, 'no,' to me." Harry opens his eyes and turns back toward the Professor. "As I'm sure you can imagine, Malfoy finds this hilarious and has used it to humiliate me publicly.

"I hope you can appreciate that I don't really want to waste an evening watching Fleur be with him." He has walked back toward the transfiguration professor, his voice intensifying as he inadvertently enhances it with his magic. "Now let me tell you exactly why I couldn't care less about this stupid ball.

"If I could, I'd withdraw. I _never_ wanted to compete--I was only entered so someone could have a better chance of killing me." He sees her confused look and continues, point to his scar. "Voldemort is returning, Minerva. I feel him in my mind and he's getting stronger. There was a prophesy at the end of last year that said he was coming back and I'm doing something that night to help me when I face him. And somehow, I don't think the Goblet of Fire is going to force me to go to a stupid ball...

"When I say I have bigger things on my mind, please believe me. You're one of the few in this place that I truly respect." He spins on his heel, takes his bag from the table, and strides quickly out of the room.

"Harry!" Professor McGonagall calls after him, stunned, and she strides to the door. By the time she reaches the corridor, he has disappeared.

* * *

"Bookends!" Harry walks into the sixth year Gryffindor dormitory.

"Did you hear something?" Fred asks.

"I may have. It sounded like our investor, Harry, but it can't be," George replies.

"Too true. Harry has wit."

"Aye, Harry would never be content with something as uninspired as 'bookends.' He would push himself harder. This man is obviously an impostor." The two turn conspicuously back to their work.

"Guys..."

"No problem, Harry. What can we do you for?"

"Was that witty, George, or are we hypocrites?"

"Hypocrites, clearly."

Harry blinks. "I was wondering if I could get you two to do some research for me."

"What kind of research?" George picks up quill and parchment, all business now.

"The kind with prank value if you can pull it off and practical value for me during the next task. You two are masters of explosives, right?"

"Of course, but you insult us so..." George sniffs. "We are _grand_ masters of explosives, if you must know."

"Excellent. You see, what I need is something that will work underwater. And I'd like it to work like the muggle device called a shape charge..."

* * *

"Albus, today I need to join the focus rune," Harry announces as he bursts into the Headmaster's office. The phoenix ruffles its feathers in annoyance at being woken.

"Harry?" The Headmaster, amused at his protegé's excitement, reaches for a lemon candy from a crystal tray and pops it into his mouth.

"I've been researching and preparing for this for over a month. I've done a bunch of thaumaturgical and astrological calculations and they all point to the same thing--if I do it on Yule, close to new moon, the focus rune will be the strongest and will join the best. I already have the inks brewed and ready and I have the athame Ollivander made with Fawkes's feather." The scarlet and gold phoenix trills and shifts its feet on its high brass perch at its being mentioned. "I was thinking of doing it outside, since I think there might be a bit of a backlash. Do you think you might have time to double-check my notes though? I really don't want to stuff this and blow myself up..."

"Harry, I can see you've given this a great deal of thought. Yes, indeed, I will look over your calculations. I believe that Myrddin himself recommends this, as he joined the rune within Stonehenge. But, unlike Myrddin, we no longer have the magic of Stonehenge available to us, but I imagine Professor Sinistra's standing stones should more than suffice." Harry bounces in his chair, eager that endless hours of preparation are finally coming to fruition. "But, Harry, I must insist that in return for this favor, you do one for me."

He pauses and stares sternly at his charge, "I had meant to discuss this with you earlier after your illuminating chat with Minerva. I wish for you to attend the Ball this evening. It is important for appearances that you make a showing and therefore avoid offending our guests. And, as my apprentice, if you were to miss the Yule Ball, it would have political repercussions that I wish to avoid." He opens a drawer of his desk and removes two rolls of parchment tied with silver string. "I've been watching your progress, Harry, and I've taken the liberty to do my own calculations. I believe that the best time for the ritual will be at midnight, which should leave ample time for you to dine and share a dance or two with your date."

Harry shifts in his chair. "About that, sir. I don't actually have a date and I don't have any formal robes I can wear and..."

"Then, young Harry, I suggest that you contact your Godfather for advice. You may use my fireplace. I shall be in my private study reviewing your calculations."

The Headmaster rolls up the several sheets of parchment that Harry had brought in and lain upon his desk. As he leaves, he glances back at Harry and uses passive Legilimency to read his surface thoughts, "...carve into my own flesh... pain... Fleur with Malfoy... get me in the proper mood..."

* * *

"Moony! Get your furry arse over here!" Sirius shouts in the dark dampness of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, ancestral home of the Ancient and Noble House of Black. Remus rushes into the study. "Harry needs help," Sirius says. "He has to go to the Yule Ball."

"If I'm not mistaken, Yule is today, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Typical Harry move to give us oh-so-much lead time. And he doesn't have any dress robes--remember his last set got ruined in that portkey stuffjob. Oh, and he doesn't have a date." The usually playful man has transformed into what was jokingly known as "Serious Sirius" or "Sirius squared" back in the Marauder days, the mode he would fall into when planning an elaborate ruse. "He says he can't spend much time on this today--he's got to prepare for some sort of ritual thing at midnight." Sirius is pacing across the room, obviously stimulated by the challenge.

"Does he have time to get to a tailor?" Remus asks.

"Nope."

The werewolf puts his hand to his chin and thinks. "I've got some ideas. What about his date? Can we ask your cousin, the auror?"

Sirius shakes his head at his friend. "I thought of that too. It has to be a member of one of the schools. The dance is open to years four and up, except by invitation. The hard part is that Harry only plans to have a single dance with the witch, then leave. Whoever we set him up with has to be available and willing to go under those conditions." He smiles, "And she'd better be attractive--we've got to have standards for our boy."

Remus puzzles for a moment, then his face brightens. "I know just the person."

* * *

"And I give you our fourth champion, Harry Potter, with his companion, Luna Lovegood," the Headmaster's _sonorous_-enhanced voice announces over the crowd.

Harry enters the Great Hall with a pretty, blonde witch on his arm, her pale blue robes softly complementing unusually large, blue eyes. Luna blinks as the couple's photographs are taken and her hand tightens on Harry's arm as the two make their way to the Champions' table. Harry looks imposing, resplendent in black dragonscale armor and boots and a thick, black cape clasped about his neck with a silver chain. Across his chest, he wears a wide, emerald sash. About his waist is a silver belt holding an ornate scabbard with a ruby-encrusted blade, Godric Gryffindor's sword. He looks every bit the imposing champion as he eases some of his magic into his aura to enhance, subtly, his appearance to appear vulpime and confident, a trick he learned from his mentor. The crowd is enthralled as he leads Luna toward the table, where he seats his companion and stands behind her chair.

The Headmaster nods at the assembled champions and they sit, signaling to the crowd that it is time for them to find places as well. Harry catches Hermione's eye and gives her a smile and a nod as her date, Viktor Krum, rises from the table to extend his hand to Harry.

"Harry Potter. Es good to see you," The two share a firm handshake. He gestures toward Cedric. "Found dat Cedric and you are seeker. Am thinkink is tournament of seekers. Fleur, you are seeker, no?"

The platinum-haired witch shakes her head. "_Non_, we do not play Quidditch at Beauxbatons. But I would be a seeker were I to play." She smiles at Harry, who returns a slight smile.

"I'm a seeker for my house team," volunteers Draco proudly, as he tries to enter the conversation. His words are met with silence by the others and an uncomfortable cough by Cho Chang.

"Don't mind him," says Luna in a singsong voice. "His hair is infested with wrackspurts and it affects his brain. They cause the muggle disease, Tourette's, you know." She turns toward Fleur, her voice matter-of-fact, "I would stay away from mistletoe. Nargles nest in it and you _really_ don't want to go mixing nargles with wrackspurts."

Hermione opens her mouth to say something, but stops when Cho titters. Soon, the entire table is laughing heartily, save for Malfoy, who flushes with anger, and Luna, who beams at having made everyone so happy. Harry gives his date a brilliant smile and makes a mental note to thank Remus.

The occupants of the table make small talk over dinner. Malfoy drawls, just loudly enough for Harry and Luna to hear, "So, Potty, I didn't think you could get much lower than mudbloods and blood traitors, but then you invited Looney..." Luna looks confused, but hurt by his comments.

Harry turns slowly toward the ashen haired boy and notices that Malfoy's cheeks are slightly flushed and that he continually looks over to his companion, apparently affected by her aura. Harry keeps his voice even, cold steel, "I ask you to refrain from further insulting my date or me, Malfoy. I do not wish to have to challenge you to defend her honor." He glances at Luna, who smiles, faintly. "I suspect Miss Delacour would be _most_ upset to lose her companion this evening." Fleur turns at the mention of her name, though Harry suspects she's been listening all along. "Besides," he says in a swotty voice, gesturing toward Malfoy's misplaced cutlery, "if your dueling skills are as coarse as your table manners, I would have little doubt as to the outcome."

Draco sneers at Harry. "Right," he says, louder, so the entire table can hear him. "Like you could beat me in a duel. Just the kind of idle threat I would expect from a half-blood who doesn't even own proper robes..." The conversation at the table ceases and tension rises. Harry considers making another retort, but he feels himself losing control of his anger. Instead, he closes his eyes and slams his Occlumency shields into place. "At least the Malfoys have _some_ pride...," he hears as his focus draws inward. "...tainted their line... mudbloods and half-bloods... disrespectful... pathetic..."

Fleur interrupts, "Enough! Viktor, Cedric, if you would please avert your eyes..." She turns to Draco, places a hand on his cheek, and, before he can protest, releases her veela aura. Harry feels its familiar warmth wash over him and he watches in detached amusement as Draco becomes beguiled utterly, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. The sound of chattering silverware is heard from nearby tables, as young men fall prey to her aura from a distance. With a sigh, she relaxes her magic and whispers something in Draco's ear that causes him to lean back, dazed, eyes glassy. She mouths, "Sorry," to Harry, who gives her a curt nod. The witch says to the others, "Okay, you may turn back. I apologize to all of you for my guest's rude behavior."

Cedric blinks and then looks at Harry, who has returned to his pudding. "Harry," he says, quietly, "How do you do that? I wasn't even watching and I was entranced all the way over here." Cho glares at her date, obviously not amused by his reaction.

Krum nods, appreciatively. "Has iron vill, Harry Potter." He shovels some cake into his mouth, his fork in an overhand grip, and swallows. "Can stand up to dragon and weela. Vill make good professional seeker." Harry smiles at the compliment as the tension at the table dissipates.

With the last course complete, the champions lead their dates to the floor and Harry and Luna share the first dance, a moderately paced waltz that Harry manages to get through without incident. As the music fades, he leads her off the dance floor.

"Luna, thanks for a wonderful evening. Unfortunately, as you know, there's something I have to do tonight. If you like, I can escort you to your common room or you can stay--Viktor said he can escort you back with Hermione later."

"That's okay, Harry. I think I will stay and look at the punch bowl. There's a very lovely shade of green over there and I was really hoping to see some tarryluber chicks." She smiles at him, adding as an afterthought, "I had fun tonight, Harry." She gives Harry a quick kiss on the cheek and steps back, her bright blue eyes shining happily.

"The feeling is mutual, Luna," he says as she skips away. Harry turns and walks toward the door. Just outside, he glances back and sees Fleur and Draco dancing to a slow piece, their bodies close. Draco catches Harry's eye and, with a smirk, slides his hand down the open back of Fleur's robes, moving agonizingly slowly towards her bum. Harry hurries off, not wishing to see more.

* * *

The fuming veela stops her pacing and sits upon a stone bench. She buries her face in her hands. Above, trellises train creepers thick with yellow and white blossoms, coaxed into blooming by magic. Globes of faerie light illuminate the maze of pathways, some of which are being used to amorous effect by couples.

"Dear girl, it is much too cold for you to be out here without a cloak."

She looks up and sees the Hogwarts Headmaster standing near her in the rose garden. Against her better judgment, she meets the man's eyes, his twinkling, cerulean orbs seeming to bore deeply within her. After a long moment, she breaks away and casts her gaze downward.

"May I ask why such an enchanting witch is alone this evening in the garden when her presence would brighten our festivities so?"

Fleur pauses for a moment, then continues, her words carefully chosen. "My companion and I had a disagreement on proper--what is ze word--comportment this evening."

"Ah, yes. Mr. Malfoy. I believe I heard his screaming earlier..." He chuckles and winks at her. "Amusing and, no doubt, effective." He pats her hand and she smiles slightly. "Though I suspect his own family will punish him more stridently. Despite his upbringing, I fear Mr. Malfoy has had a history of such indiscretions. I assure you that his actions are not representative of the student body, but rather of a singularly ill-mannered boy." He smiles wryly at the witch. "And I must thank you for turning down my apprentice's invitation. Though I doubt he would agree, in the end it all worked out for the best."

"Headmaster?"

He smiles, leaning down to pat the back of her hand. "In time, child. Can I impose on you to walk with an old man to keep him company for a short while?" He offers her the heavy, black cloak he is holding. "There is a lovely view from the north of the garden that I should like to see and I suspect that we shall have a most interesting show soon."

* * *

The Headmaster picks himself up, brushing the dust off his scarlet and silver robes, and offers a hand to the witch who has fallen beside him. The air hums with power as remnants of the shock wave reverberate. He notes with amusement that a few of the standing stones in the distance are broken or knocked over. "A most interesting display, would you agree, Miss Delacour?" His blue eyes are twinkling.

"_Merde_." The witch is breathless, her knees still weak from the thunderous explosion of light and magic. "Forgive me, Professor. Whatever was that?"

"No apologies needed. That was, shall we say, growing pains?" He looks into the distance and notes two dark shapes rushing toward the stones. At her confused look, he continues, "A colleague has been undertaking a research project for me that has just completed." As he watches, the two shapes emerge with a third, who hovers above the ground and glows, to the Headmaster's eyes, with the telltale signs of magical invisibility. The sounds of voices approach as guests rush to the garden. "One that involved magic requiring strong emotions. Based on the results we just witnessed, I should think my apprentice was successful."

"Harry?!" Fleur says with alarm, looking toward the source of the blast. "Will he be all right?"

"I believe so. He is alive anyway, or his companions would not be moving so hastily to bring him to Poppy's gentle ministrations." He gestures to a tall, slender man and a large, black dog who are hurrying toward the castle, the man holding his wand aloft, as if maintaining a charm on someone or something. The Headmaster smiles at the witch, who has a confused look on her face at not seeing Harry. "Invisibility cloak. Harry is unclothed and modest."

He turns toward the castle. "Shall we go inside? Oh, and please, keep the cloak for this evening, but return it to Harry tomorrow in the hospital, if you would be so kind. I suspect he shall awaken sometime in the late afternoon."


	9. Preparations

Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

A/N: Starting this chapter, the story picks up an 'M' rating for coarse language.

My thanks go to beta readers ParseltonguePhoenix, Fenraellis, and Vlad the Inhaler. And to the DLP crowd for their critique of an early draft.

My apologies for the abated update rate of late. (Day job and all that--you've heard the story before). Here's a short transitory chapter to tide you over. I plan to get Chapter 10 up by tomorrow:

* * *

CHAPTER 9

Preparations

* * *

"Celeste, to what do I owe this unexpected visit?"

The slender, black-haired astronomy professor glares at her superior. "Albus, I'd like to know what happened last night to my standing stones. The portal stones are toppled and the midwinter sunset stone was shattered completely!" Her face is an angry scowl and her black eyes flash with irritation.

"I'm afraid that that would be young Harry's doing. I asked him to undertake a rather strenuous ritual last night in your standing stones and the results were a bit more dramatic than I had anticipated..."

"'A bit more dramatic?' What am I supposed to do with my fifth and seventh year students? They have just finished sarsen stones and are moving to trilliths! How can I do that with no trillithon entrances?" Her exasperated rant leads to tiny froths of spittle at the corners of her thin lips. This only seems to amuse the Headmaster more.

"Professor Sinistra, I ask you to work with Hagrid to repair the damage as best you can. Please accept my apologies for the inconvenience and contact Mr. Potter with the bill for the repairs, as he will most assuredly pay for any damages to school property."

The young professor stands and leaves the office in a huff.

* * *

Fleur enters the Hogwarts infirmary and goes to the last bed, where Harry lies. She passes through the privacy curtains and notices that his head is turned away from her, his chest, wrapped heavily in bandages. She draws closer and places his cloak next to his glasses on the white enameled table adjacent to the bed.

"Hello Fleur," Harry says wearily, his eyes closed.

"Harry--how did you know it was me?"

"You're part veela? Though I haven't turned into a drooling idiot, I assure you I can still feel your aura." He smiles, his eyes still closed.

"Harry, will you look at me please?" Fleur asks, her voice quavering slightly.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea. I'm still recovering from a spell I cast that didn't go quite as I'd planned, and it's sort of messed up my eyes." His tone bitters. "Besides, there are some images from last night that I'd rather forget. Seeing you right now won't help."

"Harry, I can explain," she says, feeling a twinge of guilt.

"No, Fleur, there's nothing _to_ explain--we're just friends, right? It's stupid for me to be upset about anything. Not with... well... you being engaged to Robért. You're being with Malfoy doesn't bear on that." He swallows heavily, uncertain whether to continue. "Though I'd like an honest answer to a question, if you don't mind. Feel free not to answer..."

She tries not to sound hurt by his comment. "I don't mind."

"Lying here, I've had lots of time to think..."

"Har..."

"Hear me out on this, please," he interrupts, a bit more sharply than he had intended. "I know you're spying on me for your father and fiancé, Fleur." The witch inhales sharply. "Don't try to deny it, please--that would be insulting. I understand that you have obligations and I can respect that. Believe me, I know _all_ about that. I was just wondering if... if you ever felt anything for me or if it was all just an act."

He swallows again, his eyes pursed tighter. "I mean, well, if it's an act, then I applaud your skill--I was convinced enough to even maybe start to fancy you..." His voice trails off and he turns his head away, his face tight with pain.

"Harry, it's not an act. I..."

"You what, Fleur?" His tone is flat.

"Harry, I.. I don't know what I feel. I'm confused. I feel so comfortable with you, so close to you..."

"But you love Robért." His voice is barely more than a whisper.

"I think so, yes."

"Pity."

"_Oui_." She takes Harry's hand, hesitantly, and is relieved when he doesn't draw away. The two sit together in silence for several minutes.

Madame Pomfrey pulls the curtains aside and sees the two together. Smiling knowingly, she bustles to his side. "Harry, I'm going to check your bandages now." Harry nods absently. The closeness of the vela and the softness of her touch relax him, but he starts as the nurse pulls the bandages on his chest down. He opens his eyes, silver orbs glowing uncannily with their own light.

Fleur gasps. She looks from his eyes to his chest, marked by raised ridges of partially healed flesh, each a silvery-white hue, the ridges forming a matrix of complex runes glowing faintly in the dim light of the infirmary. After some fussing, the nurse pats Harry on the head and leaves.

Fleur looks quizzically at Harry. "Zis, it is from last night?"

He nods. "They'll fade in a few days. Same with the eyes."

"I was in the garden when it happened. Are these?" She reaches to touch one of the runes on his chest, but he draws back from her and pulls the brown, coarsely woven, wool blanket over his exposed chest.

"They are something I'm not going to talk about. But you've seen them before?"

"_Oui_."

"On your father." It isn't a question.

A long delay. She nods, slowly, swallowing heavily, a questioning look on her face.

Harry's voice hardens. "Please tell your father that I know of him and his associates. Tell him that I have made it my life's mission to destroy the one who has betrayed us." Fleur looks at Harry with surprise as Harry closes his eyes and turns away from her. He dozes off after several quiet minutes.

Fleur leans in to kiss him gently on the cheek. "I will tell him, Harry."

Outside the curtain, an unseen man smiles.

* * *

_Charlie,_

_Mate, thanks again for the armor. It saved my life today--I was in Hogsmeade when I felt something on my back and shoulder. When I got home, I found three poisoned darts embedded in my clothing. They didn't get any further because the armor stopped them. Good thing they weren't aiming for my head!_

_You were right about what you said in your last letter. I talked with the person in question and got some answers, finally! I can't go into detail now, but thanks._

_I have a question though. Can the armor get wet without ruining it? The reason I ask is..._

* * *

Robért nods at petite, buxom _serveuse, _who removes the plates from the luncheon, _poulet sauté vallée d'auge _with watercress and caramelized apples, and replaces them with two small plates, each with a few slivers of creamy _fromage_ and raspberry preserves, for him and his mentor. The brunette smiles demurely, catching the younger man's eye and fluttering heavy, dark lashes. She tops the wine in their glasses, a crisp white vintage kissed with apple and oak. As she departs, her hips, accentuated by her dark skirt, sway slightly more than necessary for balance. Robért's eyes follow.

His companion, an older man with dark hair and eyes and smooth robes of midnight blue, sips his wine and regards his charge with amusement. "I understand, Robért, why _you_ come here, and it certainly isn't for the pedestrian quality of the Normandy cuisine, but I do wish you wouldn't force me to suffer so..."

He surreptitiously raises a privacy ward around their table, his wand hidden beneath the pale yellow tablecloth, and meets his apprentice's eyes. "Let us get on to business, shall we? _Legilimens_."

Over the course of the next several minutes, Gerard Delacour scours his protegé's memories to see what he has learned from his daughter. He is dismayed to note that Fleur's information has been increasingly less complete of late, her professionalism lapsing dangerously. This last meeting is more distressing in what she had left out about _le Survivant_ than in what she had reported.

He breaks the spell and Robért blinks, disoriented, and takes a large swallow of wine. "Interesting. So _le_ _Voleur_ had the boy join the rune on the eve of Yule. This is curious timing, given the proximity of the third task. My other spies confirm this as well, though I could not see his runework in detail. Could you, Robért?"

"No, Faucon. Your daughter merely glimpsed a portion of them, and even then, not clearly enough to discriminate among the possibilities." He clears his throat, obviously upset, and says bitterly, "Rather, her attention was on the _boy_ and not her responsibilities."

"A most amusing development with their companionship, would you not agree, Robért? One that plays to our plans beautifully. You shall not oppose it." The older man has a sardonic, almost predatory smile.

"Sir?" His voice is measured, toneless, though his cheeks flush.

"Why deny such a simple means of dispatch, _mon apprenti_? _Le Voleur _is a fool to permit his charge, a boy of some power yet little training, access to a known spy. This offers us many possibilities. Indeed, I would have encouraged it myself had I felt Fleur were amenable."

Jealous anger flashes in the younger man's eyes before he calms. "Sir, if I may, what of the boy's last statement, about their Dark Lord?"

He sighs, leaning back into the soft, high-backed chair. "Yes, Chevalier and I too have heard of his impending return. I admit, there is possible merit in allowing _les_ _Voleurs _to destroy one another. I shall communicate the boy's words to Chevalier, although it changes nothing. Continue as planned unless you hear otherwise from me."

* * *

Harry pokes at the mass of shredded cabbage on his plate, repulsed by its strong odor.

"Beer and brats, Harry--manna from Heaven!" Sirius shouts and takes a large bite from his sandwich, his excitement contrasting starkly with the dreary dankness of the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place. Though it has been cleaned, it still retains a cold, oppressive quality that scrubbing fails to abate.

"Um, don't take this the wrong way, Sirius, but do people actually eat this stuff--real people, I mean, not dog people?" He pushes the plate away from him, the pale, boiled sausages holding no appeal.

"Sure, but not like that, obviously. You need mustard and a bun." The older man deposits a toasted bun on the plate and slides a small jar of mustard toward Harry across the rough surface of the dingy, wooden table.

"Obviously," Harry says noncommittally.

Remus smirks. "Don't look at me, Harry--you were the one who chose to come on Padfoot's night to cook. They're not that bad, really. Go on and try." Harry nods and prepares his sandwich with as little sauerkraut as possible. He takes a small bite and chews slowly.

Sirius howls. "Just introducing you to the finer things in life, Harry. It's my job as godfather."

"What, like with the brothel?" Harry asks, annoyed.

"Brothel?" Remus says, his expression a mix between horrified and terribly amused. "Do I even want to know?"

"Please. It was a gentlemen's club." Sirius dons a look of mock hurt. "Don't worry yourself, Moony. Harry didn't want to go in the end, so we skipped the practical. I gave pointers with the pensieve instead."

Remus looks at Harry, who blushes deeply, and opts to change the subject. "Harry, we're worried about you. You still can't cast anything, right?" Sirius's expression becomes solemn. He places his elbows on the table and steeples his fingertips.

Harry shakes his head.

"Are you sure you can't get out of this like you did the last one?" Remus asks.

"No, Bagman said I was stuck competing. He was put out to hear of my condition though--something's up with him."

"No magic at all, Harry?" the werewolf asks.

"No spells, but I can do other magic--I can still fly a broom and use magical devices, though I'm getting closer to being able to cast. I can feel my magic there--if anything, there seems to be more of it, or more that I can sense anyway. I just can't pull it up into a spell yet."

Sirius grumbles, "Are you sure the rune thing worked right? This would be just like Albus not tell you about the risks until after..."

"I'm pretty sure, Sirius. I know that my other ones are working better, which is a good sign. It'll just take time. Merlin needed about three months to recover..."

The two Marauders look upset. Sirius interrupts, "...by which time you may have to deal with yet another task. Couldn't you have waited until summer?" He stands, angry. "That's it--I'm going to go yell at Albus."

"Look, it was my idea to join the rune then, so blame me, not him. And I'm not completely hopeless either. I've been preparing for this task assuming that I won't be able to do very much magic. But neither will the other champions, since it's underwater. I've watched Cedric and Fleur train and their silent spellcasting isn't much better than mine."

"Unless they do a bubblehead charm," Sirius mutters.

Harry continues, as if he hasn't heard his Godfather, "I bought a case of gillyweed, enough for several days or more, so I can breathe underwater and swim fast. I asked the twins to help on a special project and they've come through like they always do. Hermione even looked up a long-duration warming spell, but when I tried out the gillyweed, I found out I didn't need it." Sirius shakes his head, unconvinced.

"That's great, Harry, but what happens when you run into, I don't know, grindylows," Remus asks. "You do remember them from my course, don't you?"

"Horns, pointed fangs, green skin. Nasty buggers with long fingers. Like to strangle divers and pull them under." Harry rolls his eyes. "Yes, _Professor_, I remember."

Remus gives him an annoyed look and answers primly, "Then you remember that they can be quite dangerous if you don't have a proper defense. Since you can't cast, you'll be at their mercy..."

"About that. Since I can't cast spells with my magic, I've been practicing doing other things with it." He grins evilly. "I thought I'd try this instead." He concentrates and draws his magic into a potent aura, imbuing it with as much predatory malice as he can. The two men jump back immediately. Harry reins in the aura and smiles innocently.

"Bloody hell!" the two men chorus.

"I've been able to do that for awhile, since Albus taught me this summer, but I can make a much stronger one now. The twins call it my 'don't fuck with me' field. It's tiring, so I can't keep it up all the time, but I've tested it and I know that it scares the piss out of the grindylows." He scratches his chin dramatically and adds, "Does quite a number on Ron too, come to think of it..."

He takes a bite of his sandwich and grimaces at the taste. "Besides, if I run into something I can't intimidate, I can always fall back on plan B."

"Plan B?" Sirius asks the obvious question.

"Blow shit up."


	10. Underwater Tragedy

Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

My thanks go to beta readers ParseltonguePhoenix, Fenraellis, and Vlad the Inhaler. Also, the DLP crew give this a thorough once-over to catch anything stupid. And I'd again like to thank anonymous reviewer Diogenes for sage comments on earlier chapters.

I've got a bit of rewriting to do on chapters 11 and 12; unfortunately, I'm going on travel for work for a week or so. I'll try to get them up before I go, but if I don't update for a week or so, you'll know why...

Thanks to all who have taken the time to read and review. I appreciate very much your feedback on what works and doesn't.

* * *

CHAPTER 10

Underwater Tragedy

* * *

"_Inflamare!"_

A bolt of superheated water strikes one of the swarming water demons and it wails in pain. The screeches of the diminutive beasts, not much larger than a house elf, can be heard from all directions. Fleur knows she is in a hopeless fight, that it is only a matter of time before she succumbs to their numbers. She hastily fires another bolt.

"_Relashio!"_ Cedric's spell is weak, his body, fatigued. The Hogwarts champion, who also chose to use a bubblehead charm, is making his stand to her left. To her far right, Viktor had been fighting the demons viciously, as a partially transformed shark, but she can't see him anymore. Judging by the larger number of demons she faces now, she thinks he has given up or freed himself from them somehow. She can't help but wonder what happened to Harry.

"Oh my. This looks bad." a spectacled ghost giggles as it floats between Fleur and Cedric. Fleur glances at the other champion. Cedric has stopped casting spells, his arms and legs immobilized by the slender fingers of more than a dozen grindylows. Some are clawing at his bubble charm, trying to find a way to break through the magical membrane and release the air within. Others have their long fingers wrapped around his neck and his face has started to turn blue.

Fleur redoubles her efforts to fight off the demons. "_Inflamare."_ A grindylow's face bursts into blisters with her spell and it bellows in rage. Two wrap sinewy digits around her right wrist and a third wrestles away her wand. Using its deceptively strong, lithe fingers, it pries open her hand and releases her wand. The demons start to swarm onto her--she is defeated. "No," she whimpers as she thrashes to avoid being completely immobilized. She manages to kick one in the forehead before they seize her legs too.

"The other boy is coming, the little one. I will go tell the judges and the healers will be here in a few minutes. Please try not to die before then." The ghost winks at her, then floats up and out of her sight.

Fleur feels as much as hears a terrible sound, a low, deep growl. Her heart starts to beat furiously as she recoils in existential terror. The grindylows panic, keening in fear as they release her. In an instant, they have scattered and fled.

She locates her wand, which lies in the mud below, as the feeling of impending doom grows. Cedric has swum to her and the two turn to face a black humanoid swimming toward them amidst a terrible aura of sinister blue-black. Fleur's resolve weakens as the being approaches, her heart quailing at this new deviltry.

Mercifully, the terror lessens as it draws near. She notices that it has shimmering blue-black skin and webbed hands and feet. It wears goggles and has a mane of black hair that flows about it in the water. Its pale forehead bears a familiar jagged scar and she sees a wide smile on its face.

"Harry!"

He nods and motions for her and Cedric to swim behind him. The two follow Harry as he leads them further through snaky weeds and into the gloomy depths of the lake. Harry waves off the divers whom the ghost has brought from above to rescue the other champions.

* * *

Hermione awakens the moment she breaks the surface. She is dazed for a moment and then her face clears. "Harry?"

Her savior nods and bobs his head briefly below the surface to breathe, the gillyweed still in effect.

"But Harry, where's Luna? I was supposed to be rescued by Viktor." Harry looks at her, stunned.

Cedric rises above the surface with Cho followed by Fleur, who has with her a young veela who looks much like her. Cedric turns to Harry, "I don't know what's going on below. After I got Cho, they took Luna away. I don't know where they are taking her, but they were being pretty rough..."

Harry nods, a determined look on his face. He had tried to retrieve Hermione and Luna both, not knowing which of the two was assigned to him. Judging by how he was chased off from Luna by aggressive, green-skinned mermen brandishing tridents, he had assumed that Hermione was his charge.

Harry hands a still-lethargic Hermione to Cedric and descends to swim back into the depths, his webbed feet breaking the surface as he dives. As he swims, he grabs another handful of gillyweed from his belt pouch, shoves it in his mouth, and swallows the pale green, rubbery stems.

He arrives a second time at the mermen village, several dozen cave-like structures of light brown stone and wood, somehow treated to resist rot and decorated in a myriad of mosaics made from carved bone and shells. He draws his knife, a long dagger the length of his forearm. He swims quickly toward the mermaid statues in the center of the village where the prisoners were bound before.

He swims past the statues where the other prisoners were bound and arrives at the one to which Luna was fastened, a life-sized carving of a mermaid holding a fish set atop a meter-wide, square-shaped base. His pulse quickens when he sees no sign of the girl--just a fragment of rope, cleanly severed. After a moment's inspection, he spots an opening in the green flagstone at the base of the statue, a chamber that was not there before. Swimming towards this peculiar opening, he sees motion to his left. He turns his head and sees an object moving quickly towards him. Before he can duck, he feels a leaden "thud" as his forehead is struck and the world turns black.

* * *

An icy gust blows off the lake and Hermione shivers, pulling the thick, woolen blanket tighter about her shoulders. Despite the bluebell flame in the jar she holds, she still can't seem to warm up. She stamps her feet onto the frozen ground and her breath puffs in the chill air.

Suddenly, the Headmaster lifts his robes and jogs spryly to the edge of the water. She watches as he gingerly tests the ward line at the edge of the water and, finding it is no longer in place, wades hurriedly into the lake until the water is level with the tops of his thighs. He pulls a hand-sized, pink conch from the folds of his now-soaked, silver and purple robes and blows a long, low tone. He replaces the conch and casts a bubble-head charm about his head.

After several minutes, the water near him swirls and a tail, looking as it were from an enormous, scaly fish, breaks the surface. A human-like head with green skin, untamed, light-green hair, and flint eyes rises abruptly from the water. Atop its head is an elaborate headpiece made of white and cream shells and pink coral and it holds an ornate trident. It spits out a long, angry chatter and shakes a gnarled fist at the Headmaster before ducking back under the surface. The Headmaster nods his head formally at the creature and bends at the waist to lower his head below the surface.

The two converse for almost a minute, during which Hermione finding herself holding her breath, before the Headmaster stands abruptly and flicks his wand upward, a sheet of water dripping off his arm. Just as his shield spell snaps into place, a trident flies out of the water and impacts the purple magical barrier, making a shower of orange motes and a resounding gong.

"That didn't go well," a nearby voice says as the Headmaster backs out of the water, his wand trained on the merman as he does.

* * *

Harry struggles into consciousness as he finds himself choking. Panicking, his eyes bolt open and he notes that he is underwater, bound, his dose of gillyweed wearing off. He fights to free his hands and reach the gillyweed in his belt pouch, but they are securely fastened behind his body.

With a scream, he twists his right arm around his body, his left shoulder feeling a sharp, knife-like pain, and he just barely manages to stretch his fingers to the small pouch at his belt where his gillyweed is stored. His vision starts to blacken as he opens the pouch and flicks a piece of the rubbery plant into the water near his waist, where it suspends. He bends his knees to lower his body and, faint with oxygen loss, he bites greedily into the floating, worm-like mass.

A few minutes later, the immediacy of suffocation passes and he takes stock of his situation. He notes that he is still bound, his hands and feet lashed together. One of the eyepieces of his goggles is shattered and cracks spiderweb the lens. His captors have taken his long knife and the pen knife he carried in his pouch as well as his emergency portkey, but they apparently haven't emptied completely the contents of his belt pouches. In one compartment, he has several more doses of gillyweed; in another, the twins' products and the light sticks that Hermione had owl-ordered for him.

Luna is nearby, her body petrified. This is a small blessing, as Harry notices that she has a grievous injury to her neck. Were it not for the stasis spell, she would have bled out long ago. As it is, the dark water in the chamber is slightly pink from the trickle of blood from Harry's still aching head wound.

Their small cell is carved in stone with a small opening at the top that lets in a trickle of light, barely enough for Harry to see with his enhanced sight. Egress is prevented by a barred portal and he can't see much beyond the opening. Risking detection, he uses his mouth to activate a light stick that he manages to reach from his belt.

Harry rubs the side of his head repeatedly against the stone wall to slip the goggles off. They float to the floor, nearly out of his reach, but he manages to snag the strap with one of his magically elongated, webbed toes. He crouches and brings the goggles to his hands, where he pokes out the broken lens with a finger. Seizing one of the broken shards of glass in one hand, he tears at the ropes binding his hands. After several minutes, he frees himself and unties Luna, who bobs about the ceiling.

Swimming up to the portal, Harry looks out and sees a jagged tunnel, several meters in length, ending in an opening that he could swim out of if he were able to get free of the cell. Inside the tunnel are four mermen who stand guard, each holding a short trident. The cell door looks to be made of steel, but Harry's enhanced sight indicates magic all around it. He sees no obvious latch, so it is may be held in place by magic, possibly requiring a command word to open. He also notices, with some chagrin, that the bars are pristine, not affected in the slightest by corrosion or rot.

Harry looks at his watch, which has been rendered useless by the water and pressure. He curses, then grabs and eats another handful of gillyweed.

He considers his options. He could wait until his captors come for him to try to escape, but this seems unwise--they'll undoubtedly bring more mermen with them and he is not sure he will be able to escape the four he knows of here, much less others. Instead, he resolves to escape on his own timetable. He extracts from his pockets several of the devices that the twins had given him. He fastens charges to the stone ridge bordering the four corners of the portal. Then he tucks one of the projectile bombs into his belt. He pulls Luna behind him off to the side of the portal and sets the fuses on the shape charges.

A loud, teeth-rattling explosion sounds and the frame surrounding the door is pulverized. Harry darts to the now-freed door. Grabbing it with both hands, he wrestles it back into his cell, his rune-enhanced strength barely sufficient to maneuver the heavy portal.

Harry glances into the tunnel and sees mermen guards approaching rapidly. He arms and launches the projectile bomb toward the advancing captors and lunges toward Luna.

A second, larger explosion occurs sooner than Harry had expected. His left leg doesn't clear the portal opening and it is caught in the path of the blast. Harry screams as his femur and hip crack. His skin would have shredded had he not been wearing his dragon armor. Fighting through the agony of his fractured leg, Harry grabs Luna about her waist and clutches her tightly to his chest. He swims with one leg and one arm through the tunnel, stopping to take a trident from one of the slain guards as he passes.

* * *

"My god. It's been hours..." Hermione clings tightly to Viktor, who has his arms wrapped around her shoulders. They stand among a vigil of students and professors at the shore to await news of Harry's and Luna's fates.

"Harry will make it, Hermione," Ginny says, patting her friend's hand. "Professor Dumbledore is searching for him."

Cedric and Fleur stand at the shore and look out over the water as twilight draws near. Cedric holds a shivering Cho, Fleur, her young sister. Each pair has several blankets wrapped around them to ward off the late January chill.

Fleur looks behind her and sees Robért standing alone in the distance, his face an inscrutable smirk. She suspects it's not just from the satisfaction of cursing Draco Malfoy into the infirmary. Robért catches her eye for a moment and she senses a hint of something she can't quite place. _Knowledge?_ She shudders and draws her sister closer to her. "Harry will be okay," she whispers, a mantra that belies her worry.

* * *

Harry's body burns with adrenaline as he desperately swims from his pursuers. Despite his magically enhanced strength and stamina, he is fading fast. His trident is long since gone, having been buried in the chest of one of his assailants in the first of several skirmishes. He is out of explosives--all were used in his escape and the aftermath.

He switches Luna to his left arm to give his right a rest, the transfer shooting pain through his wounded shoulder. He notes that Luna has taken several more trident thrusts, but that she still isn't bleeding, the petrification charm remaining in effect. Harry's dragon armor has protected him, for the most part, from their attacks. He reflects that it is a small blessing, as he realizes that he has essentially no chance to escape now before recapture.

After another minute of swimming, Harry's pursuers surround him and a score of angry mermen approach warily. He is out of options. He ramps his aura up to maximum, hoping that if he can't hurt them, then maybe he can scare them off for a moment more. This has been a battle of moments: Survive a moment. Fight. Flight. Survive another.

An intrepid merman jabs at Harry's head. Harry dodges and catches the trident with his free hand. He tries to wrench it from the merman when he feels Luna torn away from him. Furious, he elbows the creature in the face and feels a satisfying crunch of broken bone and teeth. He forces the butt-end of the trident into the face of another, then rams the tines into the abdomen of a third. He screams in frustration as he feels a strong tug around his chest and he is pulled away from where he had released the girl.

As he goes limp from shock and exhaustion, he thinks, _she didn't deserve this_.

* * *

_Third Tri-Wizard Task Ends in Tragedy_

_by Felicity J. Palaver, Staff Writer, The Quibbler_

_A student of the Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry died yesterday when the third task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament ran into unexpected complications. _

_Luna Lovegood, daughter of Xenophilius Lovegood. Chief Editor of _The Quibbler_, succumbed to injuries sustained during theTri-Wizard task. She and Harry Potter, youngest Tri-Wizard champion, were underwater for more than three hours before being recovered by Professor Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore, who, as a trained aquamyrmidon, rode a giant squid to retrieve the hapless students. Potter is expected to recover. _

_According to sources, the students were kidnapped by merpeople in Hogwarts lake. This kidnapping took place during the third Tri-Wizard task, when Ms. Lovegood was under a strong paralysis hex and put into custody of the mermen, to be retrieved by her designated champion, Mr. Potter, as part of the task. According to eyewitness accounts, Potter first rescued another student, Ms. Hermione Granger, from the icy depths and had returned for Ms. Lovegood, when Lovegood and Potter were abducted from the scene. _

_Sources tell us that the mermen who kidnapped the students did so under threat of release of a drac, into their waters. Readers of the Quibbler will be familiar with the drac, a race of sea serpents that live primarily in the Rhône and natural enemies of the merpeople. Drac have voracious appetites, telepathic powers, and poor dental hygiene. They are distant, aquatic cousins to the celioparthi and possess some of their mind magic abilities, though not the inclination to steal clothespins. _

_It is clear from the evidence we have gathered that the conspiracy to capture Lovegood and Potter was orchestrated by none other than the Order of the Rosy Cross, a splinter cell of the Rotfang Conspiracy. The Order is centered in France and headed by an enigmatic figure called The Chevron. It is believed that the Order of the Rosy Cross was responsible for other high-profile assassinations and kidnappings, including the late Regina Forthcloud, celebrated seer and astrologist for ex-lead singer of the Hobgoblins and escaped mass-murderer, Stubby Boardman. _

_The reasons for the kidnapping are unknown, though it is believed that the target of the attack was Lovegood, as part of an effort to discourage the hard-hitting investigative reporting that _The Quibbler_ has become known for. Further details will be reported as they unfold._

_Harry Potter is known as the "Boy Who Lived," for his having survived the killing curse of You-Know-Who fourteen years ago. This epithet is fitting, as he has now survived a vicious attack by the Rotfang Conspiracy as well. Mr. Potter is apprenticed to Professor Dumbledore and is not believed to have been turned by a vampire._

_Our condolences go to the Lovegood survivors, father, Xenophilius, and maternal grandmother, Lucinda Ollivander, for their terrible loss. We at The Quibbler cannot help but question the safety of this event, now that two of the three tasks have ended in tragedy._

* * *

The reception is small and private, held at Xenophilius Lovegood's manse, a thoroughly bewildering, cone-shaped construction of mottled grey and red brick at the Ottery St. Catchpole, near the Weasley residence. Harry feels entirely out of place, having never really gotten to know the girl, but he feels obliged to attend.

He takes a cup of tea from a lozenge-shaped table beneath a trapezoidal window. None of the teacups match--the one he selects is decorated with animated leprechauns chasing a cat-like creature with moose antlers. The sitting room, where the reception is being held, is circular with a high ceiling painted yellow and decorated with a sinistral spiral mosaic of sea shells . On the floor is a large, circular rug, patterned similarly with a dextral spiral in rich brown, red, and navy hues. All horizontal surfaces in the room--the painted green window sills, the base of the low, flat, sofa set with glittering sequins, the bleached ash tables and chairs, the trapezoidal picture frames, tilt slightly upwards to left, an effect which persists no matter what direction Harry faces. He blinks his eyes in an attempt to forestall his growing sense of vertigo and the urge to lean rightward or spin around.

Xenophilius, the only one of the two dozen attendees whose head isn't tilted, wipes at a tear with a handkerchief he pulls from black robes with a tiger stripe print. He adjusts a knob on a device resembling a Wizarding Wireless, a wooden box with five white, ceramic knobs and three rabbit-ear antennae. Soft flute music fills the room, accented by occasional bird song. Looking up, he notices Harry watching him and approaches him. He grasps Harry's right hand with both of his and shakes it vigorously. "Mr. Potter, it means so much to have you pay your respects." The diminutive man trembles slightly, his face showing profound grief as the music crescendos into a dramatic, sombre finale. "That was my Luna's favorite piece," he says, breathless.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, sir." Harry lowers his eyes.

"Never mind that, Mr. Potter. Can I call you Harry?"

"Of course, sir." As if a switch were flipped, the man relaxes and smiles wistfully.

"Harry, you should know that you made Luna _so_ happy when you chose her, of all the witches in the school, to be your companion for Ball." He smiles genially, amplifying Harry's guilt. He ruffles Harry's hair and pats him on the head, an action which strikes Harry as odd from the shorter man. Xenophilius suddenly says, "Aha!" and turns to the side. Canting his head and squinting, he looks at Harry obliquely. "I see Albus has been scribbling his graffiti on you too." He leans close to Harry and says, "Try not to let the Rotfang Conspirators take notice."

Harry steps back, alarmed. "You have the sight too, sir?" he whispers, glancing about to see if they are being overheard.

"Of course, Harry. We all do in my family. Though I see there's more than just Albus's dribbles on you." Harry can't help but feel completely flummoxed.

Xenophilius pats Harry on the shoulder. "Ah, Harry, don't grieve. She loved you in her own way. Our dear Luna is gone, but 'death is but the next great adventure,' is it not?" He smiles peacefully.

"Um, yeah, I guess so, sir."

Xenophilius's countenance falls again, as fast as it had risen before and Harry feels incredibly awkward at experiencing the man's rapid mood swings. "Pish tosh," he sniffs, "Death is a crushing bore, but we _will_ see our loved ones again, if only to complain about the decor." He conjures a hot pink _The Quibbler _business card. "Take this, Harry. I know we'll be in contact later." He pats him once again on the head and turns sadly to greet others.

* * *

"Is there any further business?" The Headmaster scans the conference room from his position at the head of the long table and he sees that most of the occupants are looking weary. The staff shift uncomfortably in the slender, straight-backed chairs, all of which, save the one in which he sits, have been spelled to resist cushioning charms. He notes that patience and endurance in this staff meeting have waned--now is the ideal time to advance difficult measures.

"I have something I'd like us to discuss, Albus," Professor McGonagall says, hesitantly, as she glances at the irascible potions Master. "Mr. Potter." The Headmaster sighs inwardly as he projects a slightly amused persona.

Severus Snape sneers. "Please. What has Potter done now that warrants us _all_ having to discuss the matter?"

"Severus," the Headmaster warns, secretly happy that he may be able to belay this discussion in favor of a brief exchange on the Ministry's new accreditation requirements.

"If you will excuse me, I have potions to attend to. They are of somewhat higher import than conspiring with the staff to, what, pat Potter's head and rub his tummy?" The sallow-skinned man gathers his cape about him with a flourish and leaves. Dumbledore tries to catch the man's eye, but fails.

"Very well," the transfiguration professors says, primly, "I am worried, Albus, about Harry. He has withdrawn more and more these last weeks. I never see him with his friends anymore. Outside of class, he's seldom seen outside that cloak of his..."

"Yes, Minerva. It seems that Harry is taking recent events rather hard."

"He's been sitting in on my sixth year charms class," volunteers Professor Flitwick, "and though his work is brilliant, as always, he hasn't spoken a word in class except when spoken to."

Minerva says, "I've observed the same in my class."

"Aye. Been watchin' him too, from time t' time. Right quiet, like summat's eatin' away at his insides." Hagrid continues, "Hasn' come roun' to visit in awhile."

The Headmaster nods at the half-giant, then asks, "Dirivana, anything you'd like to add?"

The arithmancy instructor taps her quill thoughtfully against her cheek. "Though I'm seldom one to comment on the affective, Headmaster, as it is incidental to most of what I tutor, I find Mr. Potter's self-imposed exile to be troubling. He was a joy this summer. Now, it's as if that 'spark' has left him." The diminutive woman measures her words. "If you will pardon a subjective observation, Mr. Potter has become cold and driven, rather like me when I was younger; I would not wish that upon him..."

"Wraith," interjects Professor Sprout. "That's what my Hufflepuffs call him, his new nickname. Cedric's tried to get them to stop the taunting, but even he can't get them to quit."

The Headmaster removes his glasses and pinches at the bridge of his nose. "Thank you, all, for your illuminating comments. I assure you, your concerns mirror my own and I shall endeavor to speak with young Harry to see whether there is something we can do to assist him in this difficult time." He stands and squares his shoulders. "Unless there is further pressing business, I propose we end this meeting and retire to tea."

* * *

"...and in China, it's '_gan bei_,' which translates to 'dry glass.'" Sirius has topped off Harry's and his glasses with Ogden's Finest, Special Reserve.

"I swear, Sirius, you've gotten drunk in every country in existence," Remus admonishes. The werewolf, inured to a lifetime of avoiding losing control, has moved to ice water after only a few shots. He silently summons Harry's and Sirius's wands and pockets them.

Sirius sticks his tongue out at his longtime friend. "_Gan bei,_ Harry!" He tosses back his drink.

"_Gan bei_!" The Boy-Who-Lived-And-Got-Drunk shouts and tosses back the shot. He's lost count of how many he's had, but with the three well into their second bottle, he knows he's far "past his limit," whatever that means. Fortunately, as they are drinking in the sitting room of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, he only has to crawl up the stairs to his room.

Harry sits quietly for a moment, then slurs, out of the blue, "I shtill wish I had done more--if only I hadn't done that stupid rune jo- joining at Yule..." Harry looks down at his hands and is mildly surprised to see his shot glass, overturned, twirling on its index finger.

"Harry, we've been through this. You had no way of knowing." Remus's gentle tone draws Harry out of self-reflection. "What you did was your best. Nobody blames you and you shouldn't either."

"But..."

"No buts, Harry!" Sirius sputters, "trust me, I know what it is to live with guilt. Your parents..." He can't finish. The convict's face screws up with grief and he buries his head in his arms and starts to sob.

"Me too," Remus says, gently easing the bottle away from Sirius. "Finding out after a decade of exile what you had to endure, Harry... I've probably betrayed your parents' memory more than anyone else alive. Except for Peter, of course."

"No. You've got nothing on Albus," Harry says quietly, gathering his thoughts and sobering some. "Guys, I appreciate this." He stares sadly at the table and continues, "I liked Luna, but I guess I didn't know her very well. And maybe you're right, Remus--though I regret that she died and I'll probably always wish I had done things differently, I should save the blame for Albus. And the deathsnackers. And the fucking Rosicrucians..."

"Deathsnackers?" Remus asks, a wry smile on his face.

"Merlin's balls, I hope you don't talk like that in public!" Sirius says with a laugh. "I'd have to disown you or something."

Hary blushes. "What, and miss out on inheriting this?" He gestures clumsily to the shabby, ruined parlor, nearly falling off his chair in the process. "You're right though, it does sound pretty stupid. I'll keep trying."

"You _are_ trying, Harry."

"Thanks." Harry tries to roll his eyes, but doesn't quite succeed, the alcohol affecting his motor control.

Sirius smirks. "So, Harry, what's the deal? No ladies, not even after our bird catching tuition this summer?"

"Um, the lessons were great, Sirius. I even think I had something going with Floo--Floor... you know, that French witch, for awhile. But then it sort of all fell apart. You heard she's engaged?"

"Yeah, a bad job with the two-timing veela." Sirius shakes his head. "You should have pulled a page from your old man's book, had a quick shag with her, then moved on."

Harry nods at his godfather. "Yeah, well maybe not the shag bit, but not getting involved would have been smarter."

"Far be it for me to agree with Sirius about matters related to the fairer sex, but he does have a point, Harry. Anyone you are close to is bound to be a target. It may be best to avoid relationships for awhile." He smirks. "Though there's nothing wrong with quick shags..."

Harry grins and nods at the werewolf, leaning back in his chair. After a few minutes, his quiet snores join Sirius's. Remus gathers the glasses and starts to prepare a hangover remedy for the following morning.


	11. The Famous Ron Weasley Wit

Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

My thanks go to beta readers ParseltonguePhoenix, Fenraellis, and Vlad the Inhaler. The DLP crowd did quite a number on this and the next couple chapters and I also wish to acknowledge useful guidance from the Fanficauthors and Reading Consortium sites. In responding to the several criticisms I received, I believe I've improved the exposition and characterization considerably. The next two chapters will be published soon after this one--I don't want to keep you waiting too long.

Also, I wish to inform readers that I've added an additional scene to Chapter 1 of this story that puts Ron's aberrant behavior into (hopefully) better context.

Warning: Sexual abuse.

* * *

CHAPTER 11

The Famous Ron Weasley Wit

* * *

Hermione gathers her books and parchment from the library carrel as she smiles contentedly. She had spent the afternoon studying with Viktor, who had stolen a quick kiss moments before on his way out.

"Oi, Hermione!" Fred shouts, earning an inimical glare from Madame Pince.

"Shh! What do you two want?" Hermione answers in a loud whisper. "And can you possibly start a sentence with something other than "Oi?""

"Ahem. We merely wish to ask whether we may accompany such a lovely lady as you this fine day and, at your pleasure, whether we may inquire about a matter of possible mutual benefit," George says with a mock bow.

Hermione groans, "What do you need now?"

"What do you need now?" Fred puts the back of his hand to his forehead. "As if we're paupers begging for crumbs. Barmy, she is." Hermione glares at him.

"Actually, it's not about us, but Harry," George says, "We were wondering if you could help us with his training. We'll even teach you a new spell."

This catches her attention. "Sure! When?"

"Now?" George asks.

"Lead on." George shoulders her bag and the twins each take an elbow and escort her away.

* * *

The three arrive at a large, empty classroom where the desks have been stacked into a corner to leave an open space. In the room are Ginny and Lee Jordan, who have just arrived, and Harry, who is bending at the waist to stretch his hamstrings. He greets them with a nod as he shrugs off his shirt. "Thanks for coming. I see you brought help."

"After last time? Of course we did," George says. "Same deal as before?"

"Sure, I'm good for it. Ten Galleons per hit."

"But we get half of Hermione's," Fred says.

"Half?" Hermione says.

"Finder's fee," George comments.

"What's going on, Harry?" Hermione asks.

"You're going to help these prats help _me_ practice dodging. The incantation is is _bola_ and the wand movement is like this." Harry demonstrates, firing a tiny blue pellet out of the tip of his wand toward the far wall. On impact, the ball explodes into a fist-sized circle of color. Hermione copies him and, after a few tries, gets the hang of the spell, though her pellet is milky white, not blue like Harry's. "Remus made it. He said he got the idea for the spell from a muggle sport called paintball."

"How do you change the color?" Hermione asks.

"Well, you could use a color modifier, like _bola amarilla_ to make a yellow pellet, but it's easier to just think the color you want as you fire it. Actually, the hex is pretty easy to pick up wordless, so you may want to try figuring out how to do that too—it's more challenging for me that way." He addresses the others in the room. "You guys all need to spread out and each pick a different color so that we can tell who owns the hits."

"Red," calls Fred at the same time George says, "Orange." Ginny and Lee claim blue and yellow, respectively.

Hermione frowns. "Wait a minute, Harry. You're going to dodge spells from _all five_ of us at once?"

"That's the plan, Hermione. What's your color?"

"That's impossible," she states, arms akimbo. Harry raises an eyebrow. "Fine, pink."

He winks at her and steps into the center of a circle made by the other students. "On my mark… Go!" He shifts into motion, dodging a fast burst of pellets from the other four. Hermione is taken aback by how quickly and gracefully he moves. After a moment, Harry spins so that his back is turned to her and she fires three pink pellets at him in rapid succession, aiming low, since most of the others' pellets are directed at his head or torso. With a gasp, she sees him jump to avoid the first two and spin his body sideways to allow the third to pass by--all with his head turned away from her. He flashes her a cheeky grin, then ducks to avoid a blue pellet from Ginny.

The exercise continues for several more minutes with Harry being the only one remaining untouched. Hermione is annoyed to note the several splotches on her own robes from errant pellets. The walls of the classroom are plastered. Harry has broken into a heavy sweat, yet his dodges appear effortless.

An unfamiliar, disembodied voice to her right suddenly intones, "_bola multiplicus_," at the same time that Hermione says a final "_bola_" and she watches a flock of more than a thousand brown pellets materialize and fly toward Harry. The others lower their wands, surprised. With a gesture too fast for Hermione to see, Harry's wand appears in his hand and he silently raises a shield to avert the incoming rain of pellets. Hermione smiles in satisfaction as her own last pellet strikes Harry in the forehead with a quiet "splat." Ginny, who is not so lucky, is struck by several dozen stray pellets and is covered from head to toe in brown paint.

"Gah!" she shouts, looking as if she had fallen into a midden heap. The few patches of skin not covered in brown paint are pink from a furious blush.

"Damn!" Harry says in mock anger, as he wipes the paint from his face. He notices the color and smile at Hermione. "Nice one."

"Thanks!" She says, still awed by his earlier display. The twins give each other high-fives at being five Galleons richer.

"Remus, is that you?" Harry says, still breathing heavily.

"Yes." The ex-professor steps out from under Harry's invisibility cloak. "Like my new modification, Harry?" he says, grinning, as he starts to cast several _scourgify_ charms on Ginny.

"I wasn't expecting it, that's for sure…."

"Nice reflexes though. I don't think even Sirius could raise a shield that fast." He watches with amusement as the twins and Lee continue to fire pellets at one another.

* * *

"Thanks again for the help. Same time next week?" Lee and the Weasleys nod in agreement.

"Harry, we need to talk." Hemione's tone admits no evasion.

"Hermione?" Harry closes the classroom door and casts a privacy charm.

"Just how in the world did you do that!"

"What the privacy charm? You know this one--I think you might have even taught it to me last year..."

"Stop playing dumb. I mean the dodging."

"I'm not sure what you're asking… I just dodge, that's all." He shrugs, buying time, knowing that his answer won't sate her curiosity.

"No that's _not_ all. I was watching you closely--half the time, your eyes were closed!"

Harry sighs. His vows to Albus restrict severely what he can tell one his oldest friends. "Hermione, you have to promise that this doesn't go beyond this room, okay?" She nods. "I've always been pretty fast, you know, with quick reflexes…."

"But…"

"Please? I can't tell you how, but I've recently started developing a form of precognition. This training is to help me learn how to use it in fighting situations.

Her jaw drops open. She closes and opens her mouth a few times more. "Precognition? That's _really_ rare! How are you doing it--is it a spell? A potion?"

Harry holds up his hands up and shakes his head. Hermione scowls in frustration. After a moment, she takes a deep breath and grins. "It didn't stop my pellet from getting you though…"

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, that's why it's called 'training,' Hermione?" He digs into his pockets and takes out a small stack of Galleons, which he hands to her. "Dinner, Annie Oakley?"

* * *

Harry jogs down the corridor as he rushes to the sixth year transfiguration class he has been auditing. For the most part, the portraits ignore him while he's under his invisibility cloak, but he's noticed that one, a fifteenth century portrait of a Dutch witch dressed in black with a wide, white ruffle about her neck, is able to track him with her small, beady eyes. Today, he ducks below the portrait as he rounds a corner and almost stumbles into Ron, who has cornered Fleur next to a suit of armor.

"Zis is something you think will win my heart, following me? For ze last time, leave me alone, you imbecile!" Harry can tell that she is furious, as her accent is much heavier than normal.

Ron Weasley grabs ahold of the witch's upper wand arm. She tries to pull away, but he stubbornly holds on. She reaches for her wand with her left hand, but it remains out of reach.

"Come on, give me a ch-chance, go-to-Hogsmeade-with-me," he manages to sputter.

The veela huffs and delivers a sharp slap to his face. Ron releases her and blinks as the witch hurries several paces down the corridor and turns to draw her wand and train it on the boy.

Harry removes his invisibility cloak and steps behind Ron. "Weasley?" he say quietly, just behind his former friend's ear.

Ron spins around and points his own wand at Harry. "What do you want, Potter?" Harry idly pushes it aside.

"Just to ask if you could please leave Miss Delacour alone. She obviously doesn't want you to follow her like a lost puppy." He smirks at Ron. "Can't you find someone else to stalk?"

The redhead sneers in response. "What? I suppose now you're going to say that she's with you? Please. I'm sure she'd rather be with a real man..."

"Yes, how clever--the famous 'Ron Weasley wit' on display. Let's see, something equally droll... how about, 'then you don't qualify, as you have to be human first?'" Harry delivers the last in a sarcastic sing-song and winks at Fleur, who is listening intently to the exchange. "No, Fleur is just a friend. But friends look out for each other. I know this may be an alien concept for you..."

"Sod off. I've got plenty of friends, unlike you... Wraith."

Harry blinks in surprise, then shrugs.

Ron snickers, throws his shoulders back, and channels his inner Malfoy to deliver his _coup de grace_, "And you got Looney Lovegood, one of the few who could stand you, killed off. I wonder..." He scratches his chin dramatically. "Was it _really_ mermen that did her in, or did you off her yourself?"

Harry's blood boils--his ex-friend has as much as admitted to being Rita's "anonymous" source in her latest screed. He sends a burst of magic into his aura, which smolders with menace, and advances toward Ron, who wisely retreats. Harry speaks, his voice, acid, "Ron, didn't you tell the world that I was in training to be the next Dark Lord? Don't you think it's rather foolish to antagonize me?" He pumps more magic into his aura, which flares visibly, angry crimson and yellow. Ron steps back again, shivering, and trips over the armor. It falls to the floor with a loud crash as he lands on his back on the nearby floor He scuttles back from Harry, who continues to advance on the prone boy. Ron squeals and spins around. Stumbling to his feet, he flees past the veela.

Harry notices her amused smile. "Fleur," he says with a curt nod as he rights the fallen armor with his wand.

"_Merci_, Harry. You have saved me yet again, brave knight." She curtseys.

Harry shakes his head slightly, uninterested in games. "You were doing pretty well yourself. I just got tired of watching him be a git is all, especially after that last article in the _Daily Prophet_... I just can't figure out how we ever used to get along so well."

"You've grown, Harry. He hasn't."

"Yeah." There is a long, awkward silence, which Harry breaks. "Look, I've gotta go..."

She grabs his arm. "Harry, what's happening with... us?"

He sighs. "Is there an 'us,' Fleur?" He meets her eyes only for a moment and then he looks down.

"Har..."

"Fleur," Harry interrupts. He takes a deep breath and straightens his shoulders. "You are in love with your fiancé and we both have this bloody tournament. I'm sure you've noticed that _someone_ is trying to kill me." He stares at her pointedly before continuing. "People close to me tend to get hurt or worse and the last thing I want is for you to get caught up in all that--I... I care too much about you." He looks up at her face and is mildly surprised at the hurt he sees. _She must realize that I know_... "I just don't think it's a good idea right now for us to be too close. Maybe when this is all over..."

Fleur nods, eyes glistening. "_Oui, _Harry." She lets go of his arm.

"Goodbye, Fleur," he whispers, disappearing beneath his cloak.

* * *

"Robért." The veela approaches the small, round table, her strides, deliberate, challenging. She draws stares from most of the males in the pub, but her eyes are locked on her fiancé.

"Fleur, my love. Sit. Please." The dark-haired man gestures to the chair opposite the small table. He nods at Rosmerta, the Three Broomsticks barmaid, who promptly brings a second goblet and small plate, places both in front of the veela witch and pours her a glass of wine. He gives Rosmerta a wink, which elicits a blush. The buxom serveuse regards Fleur with a knowing smirk.

"We need to talk." Fleur smiles coolly at her fiancé, her eyes slightly narrowed in anger. Though her mood is not missed by her companion, any who are watching would see just a stunningly comely couple apparently enjoying the each other's company.

"Indeed. Whatever about?" He looks down to the goblet in his left hand as he surreptitiously casts a charm beneath the table with his right to prevent eavesdropping.

Fleur leans closer to her intended and lowers her voice to a whisper. "You know more than you have let on about recent events, _my love_." Her smile has not waned, but her veela aura surges coldly for an instant on her last words, a momentary loss of control noticed by her companion.

He raises his eyebrows slightly, affecting an amused look, but Fleur notices the angry throb of a vessel on his neck. He speaks, slowly and emphatically, "There are some things of which I am not at liberty to speak, _little girl_." She inhales sharply at his use of that term. "You, of all people, should recognize the need for discretion." He gives her a penetrating stare, the affable smile still on his face. "I had thought your father had trained..."

"This is not about Father!" she interjects, her smile and control gone. Robért raises an eyebrow and places his left hand upon her right, his index finger tapping her wrist twice, a signal to be more discrete in her body language. She recovers, blushing and fluttering her eyelashes demurely, softening her appearance with a bit of her aura. Any who see the couple might be led to think that Robért had just said something risqué, yet flattering, to his intended.

"_You _were behind these attacks on Harry Potter, _non_?"

"I decline to answer," he says, distracted, looking over her shoulder.

A small explosion is heard from across the bar. Fleur turns to follow Robért's gaze and she sees a circular table with a pair of identical redheaded wizards accompanied by a young man of African descent, three witches, lithe and beautiful, athletes by their appearance, and a raven-haired boy wearing spectacles, Harry Potter. Harry looks up from his drink and catches Fleur's eye. Her gaze softens and she gives him a small wave. He nods at her grimly and turns back to the twins.

Robért notices the exchange and the muscles in his neck tense. "Fleur, I am not amused by your... closeness to that boy."

"We are not close. Harry and I have not spoken since after the third task," she snaps and turns away from Harry and looks at her fiancé. Robért bends the last joint of his thumb and the corner of the thumbnail of his left hand, impeccably manicured and sharp, presses discretely against the skin over the back of her thumb. She jerks her hand back.

"I am neither blind, nor stupid, my dear." His eyes are cold.

"Merely jealous," she spits. "I have befriended him, as instructed by Father. There is nothing more between us," Fleur retracts her hand, the smile gone from her face. "Perhaps not even friendship now, after your clumsy attempts on his life."

Robért notices that they are being observed continually by _le Survivant_. He nods at Harry and pulls a few coins from his pocket, tossing them onto the table as he stands.

"You will come with me, Fleur. It is time we spoke in a more private setting. He leans down to whisper in her ear. "Before we depart this place, you will show your affection for me with a kiss and you will make it appear that we are retiring upstairs for a tryst." His tone is steel.

"Never!" She gasps as a wave of pain washes over her body.

Robért, amused, offers the witch his hand, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Harry has risen from the table. She narrows her eyes as she coughs, her chest stabbed with pain. "You have no choice, my love," he says, his voice playful, but with an edge. "If you fail to comply, then I'm afraid I shall be in need of a new fiancée--perhaps Gabrielle would prove more pliant..."

Gritting her teeth, Fleur takes his hand and rises, her eyes blinking as the pain subsides somewhat. A black haired boy approaches.

* * *

"Hey Fred, George, Lee."

"Harry!" the three chorus. "We're about to start. Reckon Gryffindor's got as good a chance as ever next year, though we have some spots to fill." Lee slides a butterbeer to Harry, who opens it and takes a long swig.

"Hi guys." Three attractive, athletic witches arrive. Alicia Spinnet sits next to George, her wavy, light-brown hair pulled back into a pony tail. Her two companions, Katie Bell and Angelina Johnson, sit to the left of Fred. The three are dressed as muggles--jeans and jumpers.

Katie, a pretty brunette, smiles at Harry, who gives her a meek smile in return. "How have you been, Harry? We haven't seen you in awhile."

"Fine, I guess." Harry's eyes are drawn across the bar to where a veela witch joins her companion for a bottle of wine. He half listens to the conversation at his own table as he glances occasionally at Fleur and her tall, broad-shouldered fiancé, an elegant man who is apparently everything that Harry is not. He sighs sadly, and sips his butterbeer, not noticing as George lights Fred's plate full of chips on fire with a loud "whoosh."

Katie follows Harry's gaze and her own smile disappears. She whispers, "Let her go, Harry. She's not worth it."

"What?" Harry mutters, blushing, and smiles weakly at the witch. He takes another large swallow of butterbeer and glances over at the twins, who are arguing about something related to Quidditch.

"So what do you think, Harry?" George asks.

"Huh?"

"Who should play keeper next year for us, now that Ollie is gone?"

"Well, Ron had his heart set on it the last I heard..." Harry says, tentatively, unsure whether to voice his true feelings around his ex-best-friend's brothers.

"Oh, no, not that prat!" Fred interrupts.

"Too true. Would rather see Gin-gin guarding the goals than the Ronho," George says.

"Ronho?" Angelina asks, giggling. "Sounds like a curse."

"Long story, love, but you got the gist of it."

Harry clears his throat. "Actually, I think Ginny would be a good choice for seeker since I can't play anymore."

"What?!" This is news to Alicia and the rest of the team.

"Harry, I know the Firebolt is wrecked, but I'm sure McGonagall could get you another broom to use," George says.

"It's not that, George. Actually, I have a replacement for the Firebolt already."

"Really?" Lee, like the others at the table, looks surprised.

"Yeah. After the first task, the Firebolt Corporation contacted me and offered to swap my ruined broom straight up for one of their new prototype models. Apparently, they have a small museum attached to their main office, where it's now on display. They tell me it's a collector's item, what with the shaft being snapped by a Horntail..."

"Not to mention..." George says.

"Owned by the _great_ Harry Potter," Fred finishes, waggling his eyebrows and making inverted commas with his fingers at the mention of the word "great."

"Yeah, that too. They gave me one of their new line, code-named "FBO," which stands for 'Firebolt Odonate' I think. It's a brilliant ride, turns faster than my old broom and is much smoother at top speed." Harry has a wistful expression as he discusses the virtues of his broom, one of his few remaining loves.

"Wicked!" chorus the twins.

"Odonate? What's that?" Lee asks.

"It's a dragonfly, you idiot," Alicia says with an exasperated sigh. The twins share a glance and shrug.

"Not great marketing if nobody knows what it is," grumbles Lee.

"It has a few other useful charms on it. Overall it's an amazing broom. I really wish I could play, but Dumbledore doesn't think it'd be fair. I'm not really in Gryffindor anymore, and he's afraid that if his apprentice were playing for a house it would, what were his words, 'diminish the perceived propriety of the matches.'" His tone matches that of the Headmaster perfectly.

"Bullocks!" Katie exclaims loudly and then blushes.

"Yeah," Fred says, "not like Malfoy's buying his way onto the team didn't 'diminish the propriety' or whatever already."

"I agree. But there you have it. Minerva was pretty hacked off when she found out," Harry says.

"I can see why," Alicia says, pondering the news. "So, Ginny Weasley for seeker you think?"

"Yeah. I know she's a bit of a wallflower, but I watched her play back at the Burrow and she's a pretty solid flyer." The twins nod in agreement. "Not in Cedric's or even Cho's league, but she's better than Malfoy, especially once she gets some confidence." Harry takes another drink. The moment of happiness he felt in talking about Quidditch fades as he glances at Fleur and notes that she and her companion are looking back at him, the latter with a malefic glare. Fleur waves, but Harry only manages a grim smile and a faint nod.

"Okay, Harry," Alicia says, despondent at losing her best player. The discussion turns to who they could get to play keeper, as Oliver Wood, their star from the prior year, is now playing in the professional leagues. Harry only half-listens, as he is distracted by the veela. His attention returns as George laments how Ginny doesn't have a proper broom for playing seeker.

"If it helps, Ginny can borrow mine for matches," he offers.

"Brilliant!" Lee says, oblivious to Harry, who watches the couple across the bar with concern. He sees Robért stand and offer Fleur his hand. She seems to be suffering extreme pain.

Harry stands to leave. "Good luck with the team next year, guys," he says, distracted. "Let me know if there's anything I can do to help out. I'd be happy to give Ginny or whoever pointers so the cup stays in McGonagall's office and not on the greasy git's desk."

"Hear hear!" George says as he and his companions toast Harry's back.

* * *

Harry intercepts Robért and Fleur and steps in front of them. "Fleur? Is everything okay?"

"I'm fine, Harry. This doesn't concern you..." She avoids his eyes.

Harry ignores Robért. "You're in pain, you should get to the hospital wing."

Robért tenses and growls under his breath. She notes that his other hand grips his wand tightly and she feels his magic start to gather, a curse on his lips.

"_Non_," she says quickly. "I'm fine--I just had too much wine." She laughs half-heartedly. "I'm just going to retire upstairs to lie down for a moment." She winces as the pain flares, but it subsides as she draws close to her companion and rises to give him a gentle kiss. Harry breathes in sharply, the sound of two hearts breaking.

"Goodbye, Harry." she says, her face turned so that he cannot see her tears.

"Bye, Fleur," he mutters, already on the way out of the bar.

"That was entertaining," Robért says, amused. Gesturing for Fleur to ascend, he turns toward Harry, who has stopped at the doorway, watching. Robért winks at the young man, raises an eyebrow, and places his hand on his fiancée's lower back, just above the curve of her bum. He follows her closely up the stairs to the rooms above. The implications are not lost on their observer.

* * *

"_Garce_!" A backhand spins the witch about and drops her to her knees. Fleur had known she was in trouble when Robért sealed the exit with a spell and silenced the room. The naked malice on his face is terrible to behold.

"Robért..."

He seizes her by the hair and hurls her headlong toward the bed. "How dare you challenge me in public like that! That boy, he means so much to you?"

She stands, shocked, and glares at the man, her left hand rising to her injured cheek. She slowly reaches for her wand with her right.

"Stop," he commands. "Drop your wand onto the floor." Her eyes open widely as she fights through the pain, her hands shaking. Robért flicks his own wand and hers is torn from her grasp. He steps forward and shoves her onto the bed, his face red with fury. His wavy hair, having fallen unbound, frames his high cheekbones in dark locks and makes it look gaunt, feral.

"Answer me, woman. What are your feelings for the boy?"

She juts her chin, defiant, before collapsing with a scream.

"You will obey me, my love. Again, what are your feelings for the boy."

She rolls onto her back on the duvet, tears moistening her cheeks. Her voice is a ragged whisper. "I- I love him."

Robért recoils. He balls his hands into fists and his face hardens into a leer.

"I order you--remove your clothing. Now!"

"Robért!" Fleur shouts, furious Her body starts to writhe anew, as if aflame.

He walks to the window and draws closed the dark, velvet shaded. "Such a little thing, your maidenhood. Is it truly worth dying over? I will have Gabrielle, you know, if you refuse me..."

"No! Father never..."

"Perhaps not, but Sandrine would. You know it as much as I."

Her shoulders slump in defeat. Standing, she grits her teeth, her eyes malefic slits. Her trembling fingers make short work of her robes and they pool about her ankles. "I refuse to beg, you pathetic animal," she seethes, earning her another, harder slap. "Know now that I shall _never_ love you. You could have had my heart and body both, but I shall always deny you my love." She violently tears open her blouse to expose a lacy brassiere. Buttons rattle onto the floor. Trembling hands work the fasten at her waist and slacks slide over shapely legs with a rustle.

"You know your place, my 'Court Flower.' I do not require your heart--your body will do." Robért watches, appreciatively, as his fiancée removes her undergarments, her veela aura continually flaring and ebbing as she wages a fierce, though futile internal struggle. As he watches, he becomes progressively more aroused by her intoxicating beauty and the power he holds over her. "Turn around. I wish to look at you." Fleur's skin is radiant, the epitome of perfection. She turns slowly for him, arms outstretched, her teeth biting her lip. "Now kneel and prepare the _adorer et aduler_!"

"Brute!" she screams. She blinks her eyes closed for a moment and imagines a painful death for the man. The delay bludgeons her abdomen and the pain drops her onto her knees. _Mémé _had taught her that a veela virgin can, through the ritual--referred to in the most crass vernacular by this man--bind herself to her mate, making her unable to feel gratification with another until her partner leaves the mortal coil. It is the ultimate sexual enslavement.

Robért kneels in front of the nude veela and strokes her bruised cheek with a knuckle. He trails the tips of his fingers down her neck and over her breast, stroking her nipple with the calloused pad of his thumb. He cups his rough, cold hand beneath her breast. "Your heart may not belong to me, _little girl,_ but it shall not belong to that boy either." He grasps her hair firmly with the other hand and pulls her into a violent kiss. She tastes his alcohol and anger. And blood, hers. "You will love me tonight," he commands, sitting back onto his heels. "Begin."

Fleur wipes at her tears and then spreads her arms wide and starts to chant softly, gently. Her throaty tones in the ancient fae tongue continually rise and fall, building slowly. After several minutes, she feels sickened and aroused as unfamiliar heat spreads through her, centering about her abdomen and below. A faint, pink glow swells from her skin and enfolds snugly around her fiancé's nearby form. She rocks in time with the chant, the syllables taking on a powerful, rhythmic cadence. A crescendo of passion and power. Building, slowly...

Building... Tension rising. Wild, reckless. Her heart thunders.

She screams, carried by the throes of the ritual. Her aura brightens and contracts tightly about Him.

It pulses for several heartbeats more and subsides, fading to a memory. With a moan, she collapses exhausted, skin moist with perspiration.

Robért loosens his belt.


	12. Dueling

Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

My thanks go to beta readers ParseltonguePhoenix, Fenraellis, and Vlad the Inhaler. The DLP crew, Fanficauthors, and Readers Consortium commented on an early draft and made important comments that led to significant improvement of this work.

* * *

CHAPTER 12

Dueling

* * *

Broken, Fleur staggers up the long, rocky path along the lake toward the castle. The pain in her body from her ungentle lover slows her gait. She is bleeding. Her face is a ruin and her thighs are damp with blood and other fluid.

Lover? No, not Him. Never a lover.

Fleur had dreamed since childhood of her first sexual experience, of giving herself completely and lovingly to her mate, of tapping deeply into her veela heritage to transcendently pleasure and be pleasured: strong, existential dreams, biological and magical imperatives that define the veela.

_Mémé_ taught her how her magic will connect in the most profound way sexuality and physical affection with love. This evening with Robért was a crass violation. An association of sex with hatred, with malice, with pain. She was a vessel, a plaything. _La_ _putain de prostituée._

A whore.

The most foul curse for a veela, a desecration, the wretchedness of which defies human language to express.

"Tell no one," Robért had commanded. She knows in her heart that she cannot but obey, that she was defeated the moment she was forced to choose Gabrielle's fate over her own.

The witch collapses in anguish. That which she desired above all else, her independence, has been torn from her. Tatters, her dreams, her maidenhood.

The northwesterly wind blows unabated off the frozen lake and the biting frost stings her throbbing cheek and freezes her tears. Her powder blue cloak is ethereal grey in the darkness and moonlight, the color of her grandmother's hair, a strand of which is the core of her wand.

_Mémé._

She would have known, would have protected her. _Mémé_ would have allowed her to pursue Harry, that gentle, beautiful boy, rather than Him. _Mémé_, beaten to death in a fit of pique by Fleur's drunken grandfather.

She weeps until the tears stop falling. And then she plots her revenge.

* * *

A red and grey falcon screeches loudly as it crashes through a windowpane of one of the rooms on the upper floor of the Three Broomsticks Inn. It flaps to the floor before an unsurprised Robért. The hawk transforms into his mentor, Gerard Delacour, known as Faucon within the Order.

"Master." Robért bows, his tone contrite, his head bowed. He knows that this is a delicate situation and he affects penitence.

"I shall speak and you shall remain silent. I do not even wish to look at you, you disgust me so." Faucon draws a wand from within charcoal robes and, with a few flicks, raises privacy charms. "Do you have any idea what you have done, idiot boy?"

Robért, mindful of the order he has received, merely shakes his head.

"Let me elaborate. First and foremost, you have deflowered my beloved daughter, my flesh and blood, by callous rape. This is a grievous insult not only to her, but also to her family, one which has shamed all of us." He clenches his teeth and stays his hand. A moment passes. "If not for Chevalier's intercession on your behalf, I would have challenged you to an honor duel, one which I assure you would not have ended quickly... or painlessly." The man steps back, shaking with rage.

"Moreover, I would note that you have stupidly taken that to which you have no claim. Secrets get out, my idiot apprentice--something we've needed to take steps to control. My daughter is now known to no longer be a maiden, a fact which has greatly diminished her attractiveness to certain parties, should the opportunity for a strategic alliance arise. In familial negotiations, we no longer have that bargaining chip, so our leverage has diminished markedly."

His restraint crumbles. In an flash, the older man's hand streaks forward and strikes Robért upon the face with a powerful blow that cracks his jawbone. The younger man spins around, dizzy, and stands again, his eyes lowered before the powerful, shorter wizard. "An expensive rendezvous, boy--you could have simply asked and I would have purchased a veela _putain_ or several."

Robért straightens slightly, blanching at these words. He has undoubtedly set the Delacour patriarch back much in position and prestige. Gerard, as head of his family, would be within his rights to call a blood feud between the Delacour and the Dupuis families, one that could ruin them. The most likely outcome would find Robért estranged from the blood status that has garnered access to French wizarding aristocracy.

Faucon continues, "Your petty jealousy, while it has harmed my family and our standing, may have more serious implications with regards to the Order." He seizes the younger wizard's chin with his hand and fixes him with cold eyes. A knife of Legilimency lances through Robért's mind and he lowers his mental defenses to allow his master unchallenged access to his memories.

After a long moment, Faucon exhales slowly. "I see. It is as we feared. You took it upon yourself to bind an untrained girl and effect her rune with you as master? This is most audacious, indeed." Robért welks at the man's frigid tone. The younger wizard's face is deathly white, save for swollen purple flesh where his master had struck him. He dares not look away from his mentor's stare.

"Chevalier considers your acts high treason and I agree. The only reason that you still draw breath is that we debated long over appropriate retribution and our leader ordered that you be allowed a probationary task." He grumbles the last. "Make no mistake--you exist at _my_ pleasure. Your life is forfeit, subject to my mercy and, yes, I have a task for you." He turns from his chastised protegé. "You are to personally see to it that Harry Potter is slain. Do not underestimate him--he will prove a formidable opponent, even for you."

Robért opens his mouth to say something, but doubles in pain as the first syllable sputters from his lips, his compulsion rune activating. Faucon, noticing the man's plight, sniffs and continues, "Against my better judgment, I shall permit you to access my daughter's talents and proximity to Potter in his dispatch, though I stress she is not to be endangered or harmed, least of all by you. Outside of this assignment, you are forbidden contact with her until such time as we can determine how exactly you shall compensate us for your temerity."

He peers at the junior Rosicrucian and studies him for a long moment. "You may speak, provided it is in the context of clarifying your understanding of your mission."

"Sir, If I may, I can easily kill this boy. It is simply a matter of getting close enough to him."

Faucon smites his apprentice again, dropping him to the floor in a crumpled heap. "_Crucio."_ In the crimson brilliance, Faucon becomes a stoic devil. His apprentice writhes long under the curse and whimpers softly when it lifts.

"Silence, imbecile. Chevalier believes, and I agree, that the demonstrated, questionable nature of your judgment gives us little confidence. Therefore, we cannot afford to take chances. He has authorized the joining of a specific runic cluster to aid you in your task." He kicks the prone man sharply in the floating ribs. "Make no mistake--this should not be construed as a reward. Succeed and we _may _reconsider your status within the Order..."

* * *

_Rape and Murder at Hogwarts: "Bad-Boy"-Who-Lived Implicated_

_The Daily Prophet Exclusive by Rita Skeeter_

_According to sources, Harry Potter, Apprentice to Albus Dumbledore and youngest Hogwarts Tri-Wizard champion, has been questioned in connection with the rape and assault of Fleur Delacour, scion of the wealthy Delacour family and fellow Tri-Wizard champion. While not formally charged, Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts student and close friend of Miss Delacour, notes that since her attack two days ago, the very sight of Potter is enough to cause the Beauxbatons champion to fall into hysterics._

_This news is troubling, as it comes on the heels of confirmed reports that Potter has also been questioned in connection with the wrongful death of Luna Lovegood, daughter of publisher, Xenophilius Lovegood. Though not formally charged, Ministry sources note that Potter is a "person of concern" in their ongoing investigation. It should be noted that the first to arrive at the scene where Lovegood was slain was none other than Albus Dumbledore, mentor to Harry Potter._

_Notes one classmate, who, fearing for his safety, wishes to remain anonymous, "Potter is out of control. He stalks her Delacour and he is very possessive of her. He attacks anyone who even tries to talk to her." Reportedly, this student was himself assaulted by Potter following an innocent conversation with the witch. Potter used dark magic in the attack and admitted to training to be the next Dark Lord. "It is clear that Potter is utterly lacking in moral guidance and I can only imagine that if he keeps this up, he will end up in Azkaban or worse," notes Ministry Undersecretary and education expert, Dolores Umbridge. Potter is believed to be in contact with convicted mass murderer, Sirius Black, henchman to You-Know-Who. _

_While our hearts go out to Miss Delacour, we are left wondering about the environment Albus Dumbledore is providing for our children, where rape and murder on school grounds go unpunished. Perhaps it is time for a Headmaster whose loyalty lies with the students and not with a wayward apprentice?_

* * *

Ludo Bagman, wearing dark blue and grey Minstry robes over his portly body, stands to address the four champions. He reads from a parchment bearing a silver, embossed Ministry seal, his voice, a monotone. "This afternoon's Tri-Wizard event will be a series of duels among the champions. The duels will work as follows: You will each face the other three in a sequence of six duels. The order of the duels will be determined randomly at the start of the event. No external weapons may be used, though firmament is allowed. You are permitted only a single wand, which must be checked in at the start of the event. No body armor may be worn..." He glances at Harry, who, wearing his dragon armor, nods in assent.

"Each duel will be a single, eight minute bout. Duels stop when time is called, one or more parties yields, or when one or more parties is ruled unable to continue. Continental rules apply, so spells are not restricted strictly to offensive or defensive spells. Duelists are not permitted to leave the platform during the bout. Dark magic _is_ permitted, though frowned upon and will cost the offender points at the discretion of the judges. Unforgivables may not be used and will result in immediate disqualification from the tournament..."

Percy Weasley coughs dryly, catching the attention of the former Quidditch beater, who mumbles, "...as well as criminal prosecution, of course." Percy smirks at Harry as Bagman continues, "Finally, we have decided to implement an additional constraint: you may not repeat any curse, hex, jinx, or transfiguration over the course of a single duel and all spells must be articulated clearly so that the judges can tell what you are casting. Moreover, transfigured offensive spells must be meaningfully different--for example, conjuring an ice spear and then later conjuring a stone spear would count as a repeated spell. But an ice spear followed by a stone hammer would not, nor would a single conjuration of multiple ice spears. Again, discretion is with the judges in determination of what constitutes repeating a spell."

Harry knows he should be upset at the last rule, one that places him at a considerable disadvantage compared with the more experienced champions, but he's more concerned with the condition of the witch across the room from him. Fleur's skin is wan and her hair is pulled back into a tight plait. She has dark circles under her eyes and she lacks her characteristic poise. Her dull eyes remains fixed on the floor in front of her and she appears oblivious to everyone else in the room. Harry's heart aches seeing her so.

"Potter!" Harry is pulled out of his reverie by the sharp, slightly nasal voice. "I just want you to know that the Ministry will be watching you closely today. Very closely." Percy Weasley, also dressed in formal blue and grey Ministry robes and wearing a golden medallion about his neck, steps forward, arrogant, imperious.

Harry glowers at his smug tone and he fights the urge to break the man's nose. Sensing the rising tension, Remus steps forward and puts his left hand on Harry's shoulder. "Mr. Weasley, it is good to see you doing so well." He shakes hands with the redhead, the latter failing to hide his disgust at coming into physical contact with the werewolf. "Congratulations on your promotion. Promoted to Barty Crouch's executive assistant only a few months out of Hogwarts? Most impressive. Now I hope you don't mind, but I'll need to borrow Harry for a moment..." He leads Harry out of the room and into the crowded hallway before matters can deteriorate further.

* * *

Madame Maxime ducks as she enters the narrow, dimly lit classroom being used for preparation by the four champions. Her words break the tension that has been building for several minutes. The Beauxbatons champion, fretting nervously, looks up at the giantess. "You are needed for a moment," she says in French, "can you come with me please?" Fleur nods and follows her Headmistress out of the room. Krum and the two Hogwarts champions remain behind.

Viktor walks up to Harry and stands menacingly in front of him, his thick arms crossed in front of his chest. "Potter, vats story of you and weela girl? Paper say you fuck her rough. Hurt her."

Cedric looks up, obviously interested in Harry's answer.

Harry levels a hard stare back at the wizard, "No, Krum, the whole thing is a fabrication to smear my name." He sighs. "As I told the aurors, I spent the afternoon and evening with my tutors. I wasn't anywhere near Hogsmeade after lunch."

The stocky Bulgarian looks at Harry intently, as if weighing the veracity of his words, and then relaxes and slaps him hard on the back. "Ah. As I thought, ees made up story. I too have problems vit press. Especially blonde bug lady."

"Bug lady? Skeeter?"

"Da." He smiles. "Yesterday Hermione catch Skeeter and prooff she ees illegal bug animage. She vill stop writing about me and Hermione. Could ask for you too."

"Thanks, Viktor. I'd appreciate that."

"Glad story about you and pretty weela aren't true," Viktor says, adding as an afterthought, "Von't have to kill you today."

* * *

"Looks like we're up next, Harry."

"Yeah." Harry fidgets with the hem of his robes. "Can't wait."

Cedric gives Harry a sympathetic look. The catcalls and hisses that had greeted him when he entered the Great Hall had been deafening.

In the prior, closely fought battle, Fleur and Viktor had exchanged powerful curses and hexes. In the end, Fleur managed to jinx her opponent to hamper his balance and trip him. Then she hit him with a pain curse, a low-powered _Cruciatus _derivative, and disarmed him after snapping his wand arm with a somewhat questionable bone-breaking hex. She herself had suffered numerous burns and lacerations; both are receiving medical attention as the scores are tallied.

The treatment is "battlefield medicine"--enough to abate the pain and patch the champions to the point where they can participate in the next round, but requiring much more extensive healing in the infirmary afterward. In principle, the contestants are required to exchange only spells that do not cause permanently injury, since anything that impairs an opponent in the next rounds leads to a point deduction--the more duels affected, the larger the deduction. The corollary is that the final rounds promise to be exceptionally nasty.

A cheer sounds as Bagman announces the scores. Fleur receives an average of nine out of ten points, with a minor deduction for use of dark spells, and Krum scores seven out of ten.

"And our next competitors, Cedric Diggory and Harry Potter of Hogwarts. Champions, to your places!" Even with the _sonorous_ charm, Bagman's voice is barely able to shout over the jeers.

Moody, dressed in traditional orange robes, is serving as match referee. He beckons the champions to him at the center of the platform. "I remind you two, no Unforgivables. Don't embarrass Hogwarts--you use dark magic, you'll answer to me."

Harry and Cedric both nod. Harry offers a hand to Cedric, who, after a moment's hesitation, shakes it firmly. "Good luck."

"You too."

The two position themselves at either side of the platform and Harry considers his strategy. Unlike Fleur, who is brilliant at charms, and Krum, who knows a bevy of powerful curses, Harry suspects that Cedric's forte is transfiguration. Harry's ability to dodge physical attacks will be key. The two champions bow to one another and take their places.

Bagman signals the start of the match. Cedric takes a handful of peanuts from his pocket and tosses them onto the floor of the platform between Harry and him. Transfiguration, transforming one item into another, is far easier than conjuration of items from the ether, so the peanuts, which comprise mineral, protein, and fiber, act as firmament, a base for transfiguration spells. Harry summons a gust of air that blows the peanuts back toward Cedric. As they fly, he attempts to transfigure one into a serpent, but he misses as he ducks a swirling, bronze cutting curse.Harry fires an _incarcerous_ back at his opponent and three thick, hemp ropes snake outward from his wand. Cedric uses a blue flame spell to slash through the ropes as he raises his left fist. Splaying his fingers, the ropes banish back toward Harry, who leaps above the mass of knotted hemp. Stumbling to his knees, he looks up and nods respectfully at the older boy. _Wandless banishing. Nice one, Cedric_.

Cedric flicks his wand and three peanuts chatter onto the platform between them. He silently transfigures one into an Irish setter, which he directs to attack. As Harry turns his attention to the first dog, two more emerge. Secretly, Harry is impressed by this display--the ability to conjure, control and keep corporeal three complex animals is well beyond Harry's transfiguration skills.

"_Tromero fotia mastigio_!" Harry's spell extends a whip of solid green flame from the end of his wand. It hums, much like the light swords in a muggle movie Harry caught once on the telly. The whip is capable of intense burns which, if used on a human opponent, would be categorized by the Ministry as questionable--"third degree dark magic" or somesuch.

He slashes the whip across the first dog's nose and forehead and splits its skull. It drops quivering to the floor. On the recoil, he wraps the lash around the second's neck and sears deep, smoking rents in its flesh. He twists his wrist and a pulse of magic thickens the cord, tightening it to remove the canine's head.

The third leaps over the whip and lunges at Harry, its jaws open to sink teeth into his throat. Harry has presaged the attack--he cancels the spell and conjures a steel punch dagger in his left hand. Burying the dagger into the dog's neck, he ducks his head to avoid being struck by a misty, blue-white bolt, a freezing curse that Cedric has hurled. A second spell, yellow, a _reducto_ most likely, follows. Harry lifts the dying dog into the path of the spell. The animal pulverizes as his hastily conjured dagger fades and he is rewarded with a shower of bloody dog guts.

Harry throws a tripping jinx and an _impedimentia_ toward his opponent, biding time with useless throw-away spells, and casts a minor conjuration, a variant of _aguamenti_ that produces, instead of water, a torrent of oil. Cedric protects himself with a shield charm and splashes the oil into a circle around him. Harry's opponent is now functionally restricted to a small portion of the platform, lest he risk slipping on the slick surface or Harry's igniting the oil with a flame curse.

With a sweeping wave of his wand, Cedric conjures a swarm of steel pellets that he banishes wandlessly at Harry. Relying on precognition, Harry neatly sidesteps the pellets and uses the time to gather his power. Just before he launches his hex, a roaring wall of blue flame approaches. Cedric has banished the oil toward him and simultaneously ignited it with a wanded bluebell charm.

Ignoring the approaching blaze, Harry shouts, "_Stupefy_," pumping a gout of magic into the spell. He makes a subtle twist with his wand at the end of its motion and a vibrant red bolt, thicker in diameter than his arm, blazes toward his opponent with a loud crackle. The head of the streamer, shaped like a cone, blows a wide hole in the approaching flame and slams into and through Cedric's thick _protego_ shield. The bolt penetrates the center of the older champion's chest and he crumples to the floor. Harry leaps as the flame wall reaches him and hurls his body through the hole in the wall that his spell created.

He stumbles to his feet in front of a silent crowd and he pats down the smouldering flames on his robes. Only a small handful clap for him, though someone--one of the twins, most likely--lights a firework. Madame Pomfrey rushes to the fallen champion and attempts to revive him. Moody grunts and hobbles to face Harry, his voice carrying throughout the Hall, "Just what the hell was that, Potter? Thought you could fool us with that stunt?"

"What do you mean? You heard, it was a stunner."

"Stunner, my ass. I helped train that boy. No way a simple stunner could punch through his shield." A few nearby reporters dictate to Quick-Quotes pens.

Still on an adrenaline high, Harry's blood boils. "You know what? Fuck you, Moody--you've been on my case since you came here and I've had it! Unless you have something intelligent to say, stay the fuck away from me," Harry turns away from his professor and jumps down off the platform. _What gives? If anyone, Moody should recognize a Bletchly twist..._

"You're lucky I'm not judging this thing, Potter!" the teacher shouts after him, "I'd have you kicked out of here so fast..."

Harry spins back around. "Hey, if you can do it, great. I never wanted to compete in this bloody tournament anyway!" Harry storms off, distantly registering that his average score for the bout is eight-point-two-five out of ten, compared with Cedric's seven-point-five out of ten. He had hoped the point differential would be larger. _Merlin, even when I win, I lose_.

* * *

_Fuck, I'm running out of spells. _

Harry barely dodges a nasty flame charm from the veela, the pink flames baking his skin with heat. While he knows several curses that he hasn't yet cast, such as _reducto_, _confringo_, and an array of limb severing, bone shattering, and organ crushing spells, after his last bout with Viktor, where Harry crippled his opponent with an overpowered blasting hex, he is loathe to tap into his heavy arsenal. The look of horror on Hermione's face as Viktor's unconscious, broken body was levitated to the hospital will stay with Harry for a long time.

Fleur casts a charm to make herself invisible. Even with his enhanced sight, Harry detects only the faintest hint of an outline. _Merlin, she's great with charms_. "_Bola azul_." A blue splotch splatters onto the otherwise invisible witch.

Fleur utters a loud, nonmagical curse, then sends a powerful slicing hex back at Harry, the twisting scythe of silver lightning parting his hair as he ducks. Fleur _scourgifies_ the paint from her robes and becomes hidden once again. Harry rolls away from a warbling blue hex that he doesn't recognize and he starts to spray smoke out of his wand to obscure the platform area. Fleur launches a chain of curses at Harry, including a potent invisible bludgeoning hex, which he only escapes by drawing heavily on his precognitive impulses. She screams in frustration.

Harry conjures a heavy, silver chain than spans the entire width of Fleur's platform. She uses a charm to allow her to jump unnaturally high and avoids being trapped by the leg-level flail. As she descends to the platform, she directs a glowing white arrow toward Harry, which he dodges, finding, to his chagrin, that the arrow tracks his movement and embeds in his left shoulder. He snaps the shaft nearly level with his flesh and casts an _avis_ spell with a modifier that causes the birds to seek out the veela, also technically a bird. Noting their change in trajectory, he hurls a very mild bludgeoning curse at their destination. He hears a grunt and the sound of someone landing upon the platform. They both know he could have used a "finishing" spell, but he doesn't want to risk injuring her or worse.

Standing, the invisible witch spits a string of imprecations that, thankfully, are not in Harry's native tongue. He only recognizes a few, which involve removing or mutilating various parts of his anatomy. "Patronizing ass!" she screams, her bloodied, now visible face more furious than Harry has ever seen her.

Fleur becomes visible, briefly, before transforming into a human-sized bird with black feathers. Her robes tear as her chest expands to make room for wings. He catches a faint glint of silver between her breasts before feathers obscure her skin. In her left wing, she summons a large globe of fire and hurls it at him. Harry leaps to the side, but like the arrow before, the ball of orange flame follows his movements. After a second, unsuccessful dodge and forward roll, he is struck on the back as it explodes in an inferno that singes his robes and blisters his skin. He moans in agony before his flame-freezing spell diminishes the blaze.

The avian veela starts to revert to human form, her feathers slowly receding into her skin. Harry stumbles to his feet and makes an overhand motion with his wand, twirling it, pointing it downward, and following with an upward, diagonal flick. _I have to know._ He is blinded, momentarily, as the _visum_ enhancement flares.

In the afterglow, Harry sees on his opponent's chest a solitary, silver rune the size of his fist: a stylized dagger within a rose, surrounded by a circle. He finds himself transfixed by the Rosicrucian control glyph.

"_Frango ós!_"

A writhing, yellow beam shatters his femur.

* * *

A/N: I regret that aspects of this chapter did not turn out as some had hoped, as articulated in reviews and PM. Please bear with me--I ask that before abandoning the story, you read for one chapter more. Robért and Harry meet in the next chapter and offer needed closure on what has transpired.


	13. Capture

Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

My thanks go to beta readers ParseltonguePhoenix, Fenraellis, and Vlad the Inhaler. And to the several readers who commented on an early draft and improved its quality.

* * *

CHAPTER 13

Capture

* * *

"_Monstre_!" a young child's voice shouts.

Harry opens his eyes groggily, his mouth sticky with the petroleum aftertaste of the pain potion.

The protective barrier has fallen and Harry sees a platinum-haired cannonball climb onto the platform and rush towards him. The diminutive girl slaps him, hard, across the face. And again.

"You horrible man..."

"Gabrielle?" Harry recognizes her.

"She loved you! And you did _that_ to her. How could you?" Harry catches her hand when she tries to strike him again.

Harry is stunned and in shock from blood loss. A length of his femur juts through his thigh, a compound fracture, another scar. Madame Pomfrey is tending to Fleur across the platform and has left a decidedly less gentle healer to dress Harry's wounds. The burly man does not bother veiling his disgust at his charge.

In his daze, Harry whispers to the young veela, "Fleur is special to me, Gabrielle." His eyes sting with pain and heartache. With his raspy throat, his words are barely audible, "I would never hurt her." Harry releases the girl's hand and slumps to the floor on the verge of losing consciousness from shock. The young veela steps back and peers at him, surprised.

"Gabrielle!" A stern, female voice sounds.

Harry looks up to see an older veela in burgundy silk caparison approach. He can tell that her aura is stronger. Like her elegant dress and aristocratic demeanor, it is refined, severe, beauty so painful that it is at once more intoxicating and more maddeningly inaccessible than Fleur's, yet her appearance resembles the object of his affection.

"Lady Delacour," Harry croaks, as formally as he can manage in his state.

"Monsieur Potter. Or should I say, Lord Potter?" She keeps her face neutral, though Harry shivers involuntarily when her frosty blue-grey eyes reach his.

"Just 'Harry' is fine, ma'am," he says, absently. He misses her offended sniff as sharp pain lances through his leg as the healer resets the bone. "Madame," he sputters, "about what you have heard..."

She spins away from him before he can finish. "Come along, Gabrielle."

* * *

"_Ma soeur_, you were brilliant today! You won every match and you _destroyed_ that horrible Harry Potter!" With a squeal, Gabrielle leaps backwards and falls into the thick duvet on her sister's bed. Save for her tiny, stockinged feet, she nearly disappears in the cream and pink folds.

"No, Gabrielle, I was an embarrassment. I cannot believe that I allowed myself to transform like that in public." Fleur closes the door and casts a privacy ward. She slides her wand into the built-in holster of her torn, light blue dueling robes, the same robes she had worn for the competition. She remains facing away from her sister, her face in her hands. "I wish a hole in the earth had swallowed me." She slides down the smooth wooden door frame to sit on the soft carpet, her knees tucked close to her body, her arms folded across the laces of her high boots.

Gabrielle climbs off the bed and runs over to hug her sister about the shoulders. "You were heroic, _ma soeur_. Nobody can say that France is soft after witnessing your bouts." She strokes her older sister's hair affectionately and plants a kiss on her forehead.

"I hurt him so much. Harry was holding back, not wishing to harm me, yet I tried to kill him."

The younger witch steps back and observes her older sister critically as she cries into her hands. She whispers, "he wasn't the one who did that to you, was he?"

Fleur looks at her sister, her eyes brimming with tears. She shakes her head hesitantly by a tiny amount. Pain knifes through her chest, excruciation of compulsion magic. After a few minutes, it fades. Fleur, panting, pushes herself up from the floor.

"Harry hates me now. I tried to hurt him--I wanted to so much... What am I, if not a monster?"

"Harry does not see a monster, dear sister, he sees you as special. He told me so himself." She sits back, a dreamy look in her eyes. "You are right, though, he _is_ beautiful, isn't he."

"But I can never have him." Fleur blots her eyes with her sleeve.

* * *

"Harry, would you be so kind as to pour the wine?" The Headmaster gestures to a dusty bottle of _vin rouge_ that has appeared on the table. Harry uses a muggle corkscrew to remove the stopper, having not yet mastered the gentle art of coaxing it out with magic without leaving crumbs of cork behind, and puts a small measure into the Headmaster's goblet. His mentor studies the wine, assessing color, bouquet, and taste. "Excellent. Tuck in, Harry."

The dishes from the soup disappear and the main course appears on the table, roasted rack of lamb in a wine reduction, sautéed morels, and asparagus with a bechamel sauce.

He glances quickly at Harry while slicing the tender meat with his knife. "I gather you are troubled over the recent articles?"

Harry swallows, carefully places his cutlery onto his plate, and takes a sip of wine. "Yes, sir. I'm not particularly fond of everyone thinking I'm a rapist and murderer." His tone is sad sarcasm.

"I suppose you wonder why we haven't answered the charges against you?"

Harry nods. "Yes, sir."

"Allow me try to explain, dear boy, as I have more than a century's worth of experience in these matters. If I may be candid in my assessment of our 'peers,' though I use the term lightly, wizards are inherently lazy and, dare I say it, rather stupid." Harry blinks at the unexpected bluntness, a side of the elderly wizard he has rarely seen. "They believe whatever they hear last, truth or no, and allow others to do their thinking for them. Few possess the strength of will to follow their convictions and to choose what is right over what is easy."

The Headmaster reaches for his wine goblet. "In short, the wizarding world lofts on the shoulders of giants. Harry, _we are the giants_." He points his finger at his apprentice, punctuating this last pronouncement, and takes a sip, adding, "as is Voldemort. Do try the mushrooms--they are excellent."

"I am not sure I understand, sir."

"Wizards such as we fashion reality. Let the likes of Ms. Skeeter have their say--it will fade soon, inconsequential in the larger picture, forgotten the moment Tom emerges and they beg you to rise against him. And for their weakness today, I assure you they indenture themselves to you tomorrow, a debt that we shall no doubt turn to our advantage." He folds a slender sprig of asparagus with his fork, dips it into a bit of savory white sauce, and places it into his mouth. Swallowing, he remarks, "Like dreams, it does not do to dwell on today's gossip, Harry. Doing so diminishes you."

Harry pauses for a long moment to consider his mentor's words. "That's easy for you to say. You've not been accused of being a rapist." He recalls Molly's recoiling from him when they last met.

"No, but I've endured worse," he says sadly.

Harry folds his arms in front of his chest. "With all due respect, sir, what could possibly be worse?"

The Headmaster stares at Harry for a long time and sighs. "For decades, it was 'public knowledge' that I slew my own sister, Ariana in a pique of dark magic. Depending on whom you spoke to, I did so to get into the good graces of the wizard, Grindelwald, drank her blood in a power-enhancing ritual, sacrificed her soul to demons to gain immortality, or merely fashioned her heartstrings to form the core of my wand. I can assure you that I loved my sister dearly and nothing saddens me more than the memory of her death. But I have moved on, Harry. As will you."

"Why don't we go to the press ourselves, get our story out there? The way it is, everyone thinks the worst!"

"Calm yourself." The Headmaster sighs and takes a long sip of wine. "What does the world need, Harry?"

"Sir?" Harry boggles at the _non sequitur_.

"Knowing what you do of your fellow wizards, tell me--what do you think they need?"

"I don't know, sir. I assume you're going to tell me though?"

"Yes," the Headmaster says, amused, "though I would have preferred if you had spent half a moment thinking on the matter, as the Socratic method is rather more effective that way. The world needs _masters_, Harry. Benevolent or no, our colleagues lack the wisdom to manage their affairs in matters larger than they. _We_ are the ones who must wield control. It is for the greater good after all."

"That's all fine, sir, but what does this have to do with the press?"

"In the war ahead, we shall require leverage over public opinion to prevent _The Daily Prophet_ and other such outlets from becoming mouthpieces for our enemies. I am using your present situation to advantage in the Wizengamut. My associates have sponsored a measure to disallow any from holding controlling interest in a press corporation."

Harry remembers the card Xenophilius had given him.

His mentor reads his thoughts and nods. "I believe it would be valuable, if not profitable, for you to consult with Mr. Black about purchasing a respectable interest in _The Daily Prophet_, _Witch Weekly_, and, yes, _The Quibbler_, all of which will be experiencing ownership changes in a week's time. Consider it an investment for the travails ahead."

The two eat in silence for several minutes.

"Sir, after my duel with Cedric..." He tries to find a delicate way to voice his suspicions about the Headmaster's old friend.

The Headmaster smiles appreciatively at his apprentice. "Ah, you're referring to Professor Moody's eccentric behavior?" He chuckles to himself. "More eccentric than usual, that is? Yes, he is an impostor."

"What?!"

"I've known for some time. He is Bartemius Crouch's son in disguise."

"You knew?" Harry sits back, stunned.

"Of course I knew," he says, a hint of irritation in his voice. "How could I not notice a Death Eater among my faculty, especially one with the audacity to masquerade as one of my old friends? However, I believe it prudent to keep him in place, though under close watch. He is our only verified link to Voldemort." The Headmaster sips his wine. "Alastor, wherever he is, would approve."

"Crouch put my name in the goblet?" Harry sputters.

His mentor nods.

"Why not arrest him and question him under veritaserum?"

"It would serve little purpose. He is almost certainly under one of Tom's ingenious loyalty charms. His own magic would destroy him before we could extract anything useful."

"But why leave him here--couldn't he hurt someone in the school? And won't my staying in the tournament follow Voldemort's plans?"

"Perhaps, but I believe that being oblivious to his plans is more dangerous. This way, you must simply be mindful not to play into their machinations."

The main course disappears in a blur and dessert appears. The Headmaster picks up a slender, silver dessert fork. "I've asked for a mixed fruit salad for pudding--I've had too much trifle of late and I haven't time to replace my wardrobe. Would you prefer a sauterne or cocktail with dessert?"

"Sauterne, please." The two eat in silence. "Sir, in my duel with Fleur, I noticed something strange."

"Yes?" The Headmaster spears a piece of apple on the end of his fork.

"She bears the Rosicrucian control glyph."

His mentor looks at him for a long time. "And you are wondering who controls her?"

Harry nods.

The Headmaster pauses for a moment. "Gerard Delacour, also known as Faucon, is a loyal henchman of the Chevalier. He would never bind his daughter without authorization and providing her proper training. I suspect her fiancé."

"Robért Dupuis," Harry says angrily.

"An impetuous, yet exceptionally powerful young wizard. He is Faucon's protegé and I understand a member of the lesser nobility in France."

"So Fleur isn't bound by her father?"

"Not directly, though she doubtless feels an obligation to obey him, for I'm am quite certain that her father controls her fiancé. Monsieur Delacour would have required that she acquire mastery of Occlumency first, which I know for a fact she lacks..." At Harry's inquisitive look, he continues, "We spoke at length on the eve of Yule and I was able to determine that she has no mental defenses of substance beyond her splendid aura." He winks at Harry. "It made me feel young again. She is quite fond of you, by the way."

Harry shakes his head bitterly. "What can we do for her?"

"Nothing." He pops a candied raspberry into his mouth.

"But she's a slave!" Harry's fork slips from his hand and falls to the tablecloth with a muffled clatter.

"Yet there's nothing that we can do, Harry, short of killing Dupuis and transferring control to her father instead."

"Who controls her father?"

Dumbledore chuckles, "Chevalier. You will not be ready for that fight for a very long time, well after Voldemort. Indeed, I am unsure whether _I_ could best Chevalier. On friendly ground, perhaps..." He is lost for a moment in his thoughts. "Were it not for the prophesy, I would be tempted to persuade the Rosicrucians to chase after Tom. I still may approach them to counter his Death Eaters."

Harry sighs and takes a swallow of the yellow, fortified wine.

"And I forbid you to spend time with Ms. Delacour. It is simply too risky, Harry."

Harry coughs. A flash of anger passes over his face that he doesn't bother to hide. "That's rich. She hates me now, so I doubt I'll get the chance, but let's imagine that changes. I'm supposed to believe that leaving a known Death Eater teaching at Hogwarts isn't dangerous, but having a butterbeer with Fleur is?"

"Bartemius Crouch Junior is dangerous, Harry, exceedingly so, but a danger we must accept. That posed by Miss Delacour is a luxury and a distraction." The Headmaster sighs, tiredly. "You really must learn to see the big picture in things, Harry."

The Headmaster eats more of his dessert, oblivious to the glare he is receiving from his apprentice.

He looks up. "I see that I've failed to convince you. Consider this--is it not a tad hypocritical for you to scold me for suggesting that which you were doing already on your own accord? I believe your words to Miss Delacour were, 'I just don't think it's a good idea for us to be too close.'"

Harry grips his fork tightly and his knuckles whiten. _Sodding bastard._

The Headmaster says breezily, "Of the things that go on in these walls, Harry, I know more than you can imagine..." His tone sharpens, "and do not forget that you are not so progressed in your Occlumency that I cannot still read your surface thoughts, particularly when you broadcast them so..."

* * *

_Dearest Harry,_

_I desperately need your help. Can you meet me in my room as soon as possible? Come alone, my brave knight._

_Love, _

_Fleur_

* * *

"Who's the letter from?" Hermione says, eying Harry suspiciously.

Harry hands her the letter across the table and offers the owl, a diminutive grey not much larger than Pigwidgeon, a sliver of beef gristle from his plate. He notices with annoyance that many in the Great Hall are looking at him, drawn by the uncommonness of evening mail delivery. His eyes glint to the Head Table before he remembers that Dumbledore is at the Ministry for the day.

"You're not going alone, are you?" she asks cautiously.

"Of course not--I'm not that stupid."

She hands the parchment back to him. "I can go with you if you like."

Harry thinks for a moment and nods. He fishes in his canvas bag for his invisibility cloak. Tossing it to the witch, he stands and walks briskly out of the Hall, his aura ablaze. Hermione jogs to keep up. She swings the silvery fabric over her shoulders.

"Keep quiet and get your wand out."

Hermione nods and pulls the hood over her head. The two climb a pair of staircases and traverse a wide corridor with bright torches mounted in black steel sconces every few meters along the rough walls. As they approach Fleur's room, Harry motions the witch into an alcove. "Stay here and keep hidden--these people can see through invisibility cloaks."

WIth his enhanced sight, Harry sees Hermione nod beneath the cloak. "Har..."

"Fleur's door is just up ahead. Stay out of the way unless there's trouble."

Harry approaches the door with his wand drawn and knocks sharply. He steps back as it cracks open and Fleur appears, flinching as she sees Harry's wand on her. Her eyes are puffy and have dark rings beneath.

"Harry? Thank you for coming. Will you come inside?"

"No. We talk out here, if at all," he says coolly.

She nods, opening the door further and stepping into the hallway. The veela is dressed in a pale pink dressing gown and her hair is pulled up in a bun. She has her slender wand in her hand, but it is pointed at the floor beneath her slippered feet.

Harry notices motion--a yellow glow that moves toward him from where Hermione was hidden. He grumbles, wondering why she has left the safety of the alcove.

"I need help, Harry." Fleur takes a deep breath and releases it, her features hardening. "I wish to kill my fiancé." She reaches tentatively for his hand.

Harry recoils, as if burnt. "You have some nerve. I'm the wrong guy to ask with what they're saying about me. I'm be at the top of anyone's list."

She looks downward, disappointed, as if anticipating his answer. "You must help--I have nobody else..."

The cloaked figure steps closer, now only a handful of paces away.

"Your father maybe?" Harry says angrily. "You've got the wrong idea about what I'm willing to do for you--especially now."

Fleur shakes her head.

Harry says with disgust, "He can't help? Or won't?"

His precognition flares and he spins, snapping his wand downward. "_Expeliarmus. Accio cloak_."

Moody appears beneath a shimmering cloak, his wand flying from his right hand. His left holds a silver flask, its cap off and dangling from an attached chain. Harry hurls the invisibility cloak aside and stashes the captured wand in his pocket.

"Moody? What the hell?"

"Constant vigilance, Potter!" He screws the cap onto the flask. "I saw you pass in a hurry, figured you'd need backup. You'd be wise to practice it too--caught someone sneaking up on you already." His artificial eye spins back in its socket toward the alcove.

"Hermione? What did you do to her?"

"Just a stunner; she'll be fine," he grumbles. His eye spins and looks Harry up and down. "So I was right about you, boy? Doing a spot of killin' now, eh?"

"Sod off, Moody. And keep your hands where I can see them!" He glances at the witch, who has raised her wand halfway. "You too, Fleur."

"Harry?"

"Do it! I'm not in a position to trust either of you." Fleur lowers her wand.

Harry's precognition flares again and he instinctively ducks. Moody's left wrist flicks and a wand appears from a hidden holster. He lowers it with an angular stroke and expels a jagged, black and crimson ribbon, a dark cutting curse. Harry rolls and comes up in a crouch, a silent bludgeoning curse sputtering from his wand that crashes into Moody's shield. The auror switches the wand to his right hand. Fleur slashes hers downward and hooks it, as blue lightning sprays from the tip. Moody deflects the curse into the nearby wall, where it leaves a hand-sized scorch.

Harry makes a twisting motion with his wand and a strong gale blows around Moody that tears at his robes and causes him to stumble. The auror's return fire, a stunner, veers wide and Harry doesn't even dodge. Fleur mutters a long incantation and points her wand at Moody's feet, where the floor shimmers translucent white. Moody falls onto his side on the now-slippery surface. He sits up quickly and whips a blasting curse back at Fleur, who blocks the thick, yellow cable, its impact exploding onto her shield and hurtling her backwards through the doorway.

Harry summons a hand-and-a-half blade from the buffed suit of armor behind Moody and opens his left hand to catch the hilt. Oblivious, Moody straightens and the pommel strikes him in the back of the head with a muffled "thump." He lurches forward, unconscious, and falls onto the floor where Harry binds him with _incarcerous_ ropes.

Harry stands, shaking from nerves, and walks toward Fleur, who has stepped out into the hallway. Their eyes meet and he reaches out with a brush of Legilimency. Her breath hitches as she feels the intrusion. She bites her lip, nodding. Harry carefully places one hand behind her neck and tilts her chin upward with the other as he lifts her thoughts from her consciousness. After a short descent into cottony warmth, he senses the affection she feels for him, her regret for hurting him, her genuine sorrow that he will never be hers.

Her veela aura throbs at the last and Harry, shrouded as he is, finds his mind open and more susceptible to her magic. Reckless, he starts to push harder as he roots for her feelings for his rival. She gasps as he grinds against her consciousness and pulls them into a reliving of her recent trauma. Bitter minutes pass.

Blinking, he pulls his mind back and notices that she has been pounding on his chest with her fists. "Stop!" she shouts, putting her face in her hands. "Why, Harry?"

He blinks, stunned and horrified at what he's done. "I- I didn't know that would happen... I never mean to hurt you." He looks away, ashamed. "You've been hurt so much already."

She slaps him across the face. "Bastard!" Her hands ball into fists. "I don't want your pity."

A long pause.

"What do you want?"

"For you to help me." Her features soften as her fury abates. "Hold me, Harry."

She steps toward Harry and he pulls her into a tentative embrace. Tense, she allows his arms to circle her. They stand together, awkward, and she starts to weep silently on his shoulder, her hands snaking up behind his neck. He feels her ring, cold platinum, touch his skin.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," she whispers.

It warms and a sharp pull tugs within his abdomen.

* * *

Harry pushes Fleur away from him as his disorientation fades. He finds himself outside the castle in a forest clearing. Budding deciduous trees surround him and lights in the distance makes him think he may be somewhere in the Forbidden Forest near Hogsmeade. He tries to Apparate, but is not surprised to find his egress blocked.

"_Monsieur_ Potter, drop your wand." The deep, heavily accented voice emanates from a tall man with long, dark hair and a muscular build. He ghosts in shadow in the moonlit clearing, his wand remaining pointed at Harry's head. His face becomes visible. Robért Dupuis. Harry reaches into his robes slowly and takes his wand from its folds. It drops onto the gravel.

"My dear, it took you longer than I had expected." The man speaks in heavily accented English.

Harry glares, first at Fleur, then Robért, his voice bitter. "Albus said you couldn't be trusted, Fleur, that I was a fool for thinking otherwise. I should have listened to the old man."

A tear, silver in the moonlight, trickles down her cheek. "I swear, Harry, I didn't know..."

"Shut up," he spits.

"Fleur, my love, decapitate Mr. Potter please."

Harry meets her eyes. Her wand tip trembles as she raises it to his Adam's apple. Breathing heavily, her left arm clutches across her chest. She fights, her tears, twin rivers.

"Just two little words, dearest, and the pain will go. Say them now." Robért's voice is hypnotic, seductive. Her lower lip quivers and her wand hand starts to shake uncontrollably. She looks into Harry's eyes, finding knowledge that he is about to die and courage to face his end proudly.

"No!" she screams, spinning toward Robért and firing a severing hex. As he dodges, rolling and rising to his feet, she collapses, screaming, with arms clutched tightly over her chest, her wand dropped in the dust. Powerful waves of agony wash over her. Her fiancé also doubles in pain before recovering.

Harry leaps to the side as his precognitive senses roar. He sidesteps a yellow bolt--a bludgeoning curse--and then a vibrant blue severing curse. He rolls to avoid a third that he doesn't recognize--blue-green lightning that scores the ground with a crackling sound. Lunging for his wand, he ducks a jet of orange flame, which streaks past his head and singes his hair. He returns fire with a powerful stunner, the red bolt missing, angling upwards into the trees.

Fleur curls into a foetal position as racking pains consume her. Harry sees her writhe, her compulsion rune now blood red, its glow visible through her robes as it burns in awful retribution. Her breath comes in ragged, shuddering gasps. Before his mind can register the danger, Harry finds himself subconsciously throwing up a _protego_ that deflects a silent, invisible blasting curse from the older wizard. With detached appreciation, he notes just how much faster and more powerful Robért is than his usual sparring partners, how this battle carries some of the one-sided feel of the times he and Albus had sparred.

Harry struggles to his feet while dodging and deflecting an onslaught of powerful cutting curses, the jets of yellow crashing off his shield and ploughing the ground. The air takes on the tannin stink of scorched bracken. He manages to make it to one knee before an ugly, crimson bolt knifes through his shield and heaves him onto his back. His nerves flare with a familiar, all-consuming burn before his mind registers the incantation, "_Crucio."_

Harry bites through his tongue and a salty, coppery tang fills his mouth. Fighting the pain, he slowly raises his wand and thinks, "_sectumsempra"_ as he makes a jagged slashing motion. His adversary drops the torture curse as a ribbon of yellow streaks from Harry's wand and rips a deep rent in the man's thigh. Blood spurts. Robért grunts in frustration as he first tries to close the wound and, finding that he cannot, cauterizes it with a flame spell. Harry staggers to his feet as his adversary hobbles into the woods.

Harry's limbs shake from the after-effects of the torture curse. Fleur, beside him, desperately gasps for breath and Harry knows that he has little time to counteract or block the effects of her rune. He could send her to the infirmary with his emergency portkey, but if Robért were to get away, she would surely perish. He grits his teeth and jogs stiffly in the direction the man had fled.

Several paces into the woods, Harry stops at the edge of another clearing. He is unable to spot his opponent, yet foreboding presses on his mind. He casts a _visum_ flare, hoping to spot the other man or his runes. To his surprise, he sees no sign of his opponent. _Did he portkey? He couldn't have run away so quickly_...

Harry subconsciously brings his left arm above his head as a large jaguar drops from the tree above. He rams his forearm into its maw as it falls onto him and drives him downward. The bones in his forearm shatter, but his armor prevents teeth from tearing into his flesh and ripping his arm from his body. The beast's left forepaw tears deep gouges in Harry's face from nose to right ear. He lets out a pained grunt as his back strikes the turf, his left shoulder dislocating with a loud "thwup."

From his position flat on his back, Harry mutters, "_tromero fotia mastigio_" and flings his right arm over his chest to flail at the jaguar with an expanding whip of green light. The lash digs deeply into its back and snakes about its shoulder, the tip smiting a deep furrow into its right forepaw. Harry twists his wand and pours a torrent of magic into the spell to intensify the blaze. Humming loudly, it smolders with the acrid stink of burnt flesh and fur. The jaguar releases Harry's arm and bounds away, limping.

The great cat roars in fury, transforming back into a man. Staggering to his feet, Harry notices that his enemy's right hand is mangled and unable to hold his wand. Robért switches his wand to his left and transfigures a nearby stump into a brown bear. Dodging a string of poorly aimed hexes from Robért, Harry lashes at the bear with his whip and directs a powerful _reducto_ spell at its head. It collapses and bleeds out onto the forest floor.

Harry turns to his opponent, again a great cat who regards him with cold menace, not the feral look of a wild thing. Intense pain lances through Harry's ruined shoulder, aggravated by his recent motion, and he raises his wand as the limping cat bounds toward him. "_Confringo_." The blasting curse explodes between them and Harry is blown backwards by the shock wave. The jaguar slams into the ground several meters away, its back twisted horribly.

The animagus transforms slowly back into human form. Robért lies still, his spine broken, his breath rattling, labored. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth as his eyes stare glassily at the stars.

Harry is consumed by rage. Adrenaline coursing through him, he ambles to the man, his wand trained on him. Robért's eyes focus for a brief moment on Harry, yet the rest of his body remains unmoved.

"Don't die yet, you bloody bastard! I'm not through talking to you!" He grabs the man's robes with his good arm. "You had the most beautiful, wonderful woman in the world and you tried to destroy her! If there's a hell, I swear I'll hunt you down in the afterlife and kill you all over again for that!" He throws the older man's body down in disgust and sees Robért's eyes roll back in his head, his breath leaving him in a long, tired hiss. Somewhere in the back of his mind it registers that Harry has just killed another man.

Runes start to glow on the man's face, livid, scarlet stains on forehead, cheeks, chin. With horror, Harry recognizes a few of them--Sumerian pain and torture runes bound within an angular agglutination of the Egyptian glyph of death... _Oh shit!_ Robért breathes a last, faint breath and the glow intensifies. The whites of the man's eyes glow metallic red.

Harry is too spent to flee, so he banishes the body across the clearing. From the distance, the violet aura shrouding the corpse glows progressively brighter. Desperate, Harry throws up a transhield and he just manages to snap a _protego _charm in placebefore his world explodes in light and thunder. A solitary bolt of blue-black arcs from the dead man's body toward Harry. It pulverizes the marble slab and shreds his shield before it connects with Harry's chest. His body burns with invisible flame.

After a first, terrible scream, he finds himself unable to draw breath. He suffers in silence until his world turns black.

* * *

The pain in her chest fades as she hears thunder and feels the ground shake. A strong gust of wind blows through the trees. Fleur takes several deep breaths as the fog in her mind clears.

After long minutes, she hears voices speaking her native tongue, "...came from over here... ...dead and the boy is dying... " _Harry!_

The witch crawls in the dust to reach her wand, her body complaining at the sudden movement, and she heads in the direction where she had last seen Harry and Robért. Staggering, she trips into a blackened clearing. At the far end is a charred skeleton, human-sized, consumed by an inferno. She steps closer, her gorge rising.

A soft moan to her left brings her attention to Harry, who is almost unrecognizable with his face a shredded mask of blood. His left arm hangs nearly detached from his body and his right is in a death grip about his wand.

She looks up as a man's voice sounds. "Fleur!" Her father strides into the clearing flanked by two impeccably dressed wizards. The three raise their wands and point them at Harry.

"Father?"

"_Ma petite_, this does not concern you." His voice carries warning and anger.

"No!" she screams, and dives onto Harry, shielding his body with hers.

Gerard Delacour fires a powerful stunner at her, but she brings up a shield charm in time to protect them. The two men step closer, one on each side of the prone pair, each flinging red bolts that crackle and discharge as they dance over her force shield. Her charm starts to buckle and she numbs as lightning seeps through.

"Fleur," Harry whispers, barely audible over the din, "take my hand." She does and feels a cold, hard object slip within.

"Beam me up."


	14. Manipulations and Machinations

Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

My thanks go to beta readers ParseltonguePhoenix, Fenraellis, and Vlad the Inhaler; and thanks to Tinn Tam for the incantation of Sandrine's privacy charm.

* * *

CHAPTER 14

Manipulations and Machinations

* * *

"My wayward apprentice has returned, I see," Professor Dumbledore says, striding into the darkened infirmary with rose-coloured robes flaring behind him.

The matron finishes tracing tiny circles near her patient's Adam's apple with the tip of her wand to coax a syrupy, cream-coloured potion into his mouth and down his throat. She looks up, her forehead lined with concern. "I don't recognize the spell that hit him, Albus," she say, her voice low, "We may want to consider moving him to St. Mungos."

Dumbledore nods, glancing at Fleur, who sits next to Harry's bed on a lightly padded wooden chair. "While I have no doubt you are correct, Poppy, would you indulge me a few minutes alone with Harry and Miss Delacour? I might learn something germane to his condition." The matron nods and gathers her medicines.

"_Professeur?" _Fleur asks as the older witch departs.

The Headmaster makes a subtle flick with his wand and Fleur and her chair slide slowly back from the Harry's bed. The venerable wizard sits between the two on the edge of the mattress, his back to Harry. He swishes his wand again and Fleur feels a breath of magic mist over her.

"A privacy spell. Harry needs his rest and I do not wish for our conversation to disturb him or any of the others who may be in this ward. Though I understand that my Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor and Miss Granger have been released?"

Fleur nods, cautious, her father's warnings coming to the fore.

"Dear girl." He pats her on the hand. "I hope that your own suffering in this ordeal has not been too great."

"Sir, I am fine, thank you for asking," she replies politely. "I am more worried about Harry."

"Ah yes, Harry. I am rather disappointed that he violated my instruction not to get involved in your unfortunate situation." He smiles reassuringly. "Not because I do not care for you, for I do, child, but because of the danger to both of you. Alas, I am not surprised at his actions--young Harry was sorted into Gryffindor for a reason. I know that Harry would move heaven and earth, would lay down his own life if necessary, for those he... loves."

He hesitates on the last word, lending it additional weight, and her breath catches.

The Headmaster seems to read her thoughts. He turns and pats Harry gently on the leg and sniffs sadly. "Such a rare talent Harry is, a treasure--he is the one I have waited a century for." After a pause, the man's eyes glisten. He conjures a lime green handkerchief and wipes his eyes and nose. "He must bear a terrible burden for all of us..."

"Headmaster?"

The ancient wizard looks into her eyes and Fleur feels her soul bare, as if the man were weighing her worth. "I cannot share the details, child, but it suffices that Harry has a great destiny laid before him. I do not exaggerate when I say he bears the fates of all of us." The two sit in silence for several minutes. "Alas, so much responsibility for one so young..."

Fleur's heart wrenches with guilt. "This, sir, it's... it's all my fault..."

The Headmaster places his left hand on her shoulder and conjures another handkerchief in his right. "Please, dear girl, tell me what happened this evening? I'm sure it's not as bad as you say."

She takes the handkerchief and blots at at her eyes. Looking at the man, with his kind eyes that sparkle in the candlelight, she is surprised to find herself trusting him somehow and stammering through a retelling of her story. She is forced to stop occasionally for tears that fall unabated.

The elderly wizard pats her hand. "That you were able to fight the compulsion is truly remarkable, Miss Delacour. Do not blame yourself--you saved Harry, and for that we all are in your debt." He pauses before continuing. "You say you saw a burned body, one which you believe was your fiancé's?"

She nods.

"I know this is painful, but was Mr. Dupuis's body merely burned, or was it perchance consumed by flame, incinerated?"

"The latter," she whispers.

He nods gravely. "Dear child, I'm going to ask something difficult of you. Do you know what Legilimency is?"

She nods, recoiling slightly.

"For Harry's sake, I wish to view your memories of the clearing. We may find something that can help him. I give you my word that I will not stray beyond the events of this evening."

She hesitates, reticent about allowing another into her mind. Glancing at Harry's pale face, the deep rents in his cheek closed with silvery scar tissue, she swallows and nods. He pats the witch's hand again and peers deeply into her eyes. Unlike Harry's intrusion, the touch on her mind is almost imperceptible. After several moments, she blinks.

The wizard turns toward Harry with closed eyes. Folding back the blanket, he lays one hand on the bared chest and with the other, moves his wand in slow circles while chanting faintly. After a few minutes, he opens his eyes and peers closely at Harry, his face only a few centimeters from his skin.

He sighs in relief and turns back to the witch. "Do not fear, Miss Delacour. I believe I understand what has happened and, if my guess is correct, then Harry _should_ recover, eventually. I fear he might be weakened for some time, however."

He looks at her for a long moment and continues, "You said you were unable to resist your fiancé's commands. Exactly why is a matter which I urge you to take up with your father. You have a right to know."

"Father? He knows?"

"Yes. Ask him to tell you of the Rosicrucians. I shall say no more, for that is his purview, although I do know that he has the answers you seek."

He furls his brow, deep in thought, and then stands, patting her hand. "I know this is difficult for you, child, and it pains me that it will devastate Harry, but if you truly love him, then you must let him go. As you shall no doubt learn from your father, the two of you _cannot_ be together, especially now. The danger is far too great, for you, for Harry... for all of us." He maunders to the door with a slump in his shoulders.

Tears fall from Fleur's eyes, silver rivulets on perfect skin. She meets the Headmaster's cerulean eyes with her own and she nods, biting her lip. Moving to Harry's side, she gives him a gentle kiss on his lips. "I shall always love you, my brave rogue." She glances up again and catches a glimpse of the Headmaster's robes in the doorway as the dagger twists in her heart.

After several paces, the corners of the Headmaster's mouth curl into the faintest of smiles.

* * *

"How's the shoulder, kiddo?" Sirius asks as he transforms from dog to man. He casts a series of locking charms on the door to the Room of Requirement, arranged in the familiar form of their dueling and training chambers.

"Still hurts," Harry says, rolling his arm. "I can move it okay, but there's a lot of pain. Pomfrey says I've got soft tissue damage and that it won't heal right until summer, if even then. At least it was my left arm, not my right."

Sirius sighs and pulls Harry into a one-armed hug. "And your magic?"

"That came back pretty well, actually, so I won't be a squib like I was for the third task. If I lost anything, I don't notice it." He smiles weakly. "Small miracles, eh?"

"Yeah, small miracles." He grumbles. "So what did that guy hit you with?"

"Some bastardization of the _telikos lexi _rune cluster we think--I don't know much about it, but apparently it's one that fires when you die and taps your magic for a final, concentrated spell blast. Thanks, by the way. If it weren't for the transhield, I'd have died for sure."

"Don't mention it."

"Anyway, it wasn't all bad. It gave Albus and me an idea to lay a surprise for Voldemort in case he ever manages to off me..."

"You can't be serious, Harry!"

"No, you are." Neither even smiles at the tired pun. "The trouble is that like all runes of this type, absorbing it changes you, turns you into a completely different person. This one is pretty bad--we think it makes a person fatalistic, makes him seek death. That Dupuis tosser's days were numbered once he took it; even if he had managed to kill me, the Rosicrucians would have needed to keep sending him after others until he finally died... I'd almost feel sorry for him if it weren't for that little thing about his raping Fleur and ruining her life."

He notices the shocked expression on his godfather's face. "Don't worry. It'll be a last resort, I promise. I'm not suicidal... yet." He winks and flashes a fake smile at his godfather. "So, Uncle Paddy, what nastiness are you going to teach me today?"

"I'd planned to show you a few new charms to help you in the maze--there's a simple one, a 'point-me' charm, that should be dead useful, as well as a wicked curse... But before we get started, have you talked with Fleur about this?"

Harry snorts. "No."

"Harry, you really should..."

"Trust me, I've tried. She's avoiding me. Though I saved her life, which should count for something if you ask me, I think she is upset at me--every time I do see her, she either runs away or breaks down. I'm guessing it may be because I killed her fiancé, but Hermione thinks she could still be dealing with the rape as well as maybe guilt for her role in trapping me, fear of me and what I can do, or something else entirely. Or maybe a combination, who knows? _I_ sure don't understand women." He throws his hands up dramatically.

"Nobody does, Harry. Nobody who stands to piss, anyway."

* * *

"Shall we, Harry?" Remus asks hurriedly. His charcoal and silver dress robes, borrowed from Sirius, lend him an uncharacteristically dignified air. A bit of last-minute tailoring was needed to strip them of the Black regalia and avoid making an unforgivable, if inadvertent offense to the pure-blooded who are in attendance.

"Yeah, let's get this dog-and-pony show over with," Harry mutters.

The two approach the doorway to the hall where the Champions' Reception is being held. They are greeted at the doorway by Percy Weasley, who wears grey and blue robes and a medallion with the symbol of the Ministry about his neck on a gold chain.

"Hi Percy." Harry hands the former Head Boy the engraved invitation that he had secured for Remus.

"Mr. Potter." He nods formally to Harry, then gives Remus an indignant look. "As a Tri-Wizard champion, you may enter, however, your guest may not."

"Sorry?"

He puts on a pair of expensive looking reading glasses and reads from a piece of parchment, "According to the Ministry, Mr. Lupin is registered as being part human, of subspecies _canus lupin lycanthropa_, a.k.a. common werewolf, which is a Class II Dark Creature and, as such, falls under the jurisdiction of the Beast Division of the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Ministry sanctioned events, such as this one, cannot admit such creatures without adequate precaution so as to prevent injury and/or harm to those present, including but not limited to Ministry personnel. I'm afraid Mr. Lupin is not permitted to attend." His slightly nasal, supercilious tone infuriates Harry.

"What? Full moon isn't for another week and a half, Percy! You can't do this!" Harry's raised voice draws the attention of some of the guests inside.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Potter. It is a matter of Ministry regulation and there is no ambiguity. As the senior Ministry representative organizing this event, I'm afraid I must rule that there's nothing I can do." Percy delivers this speech smugly, his arms folded across his chest.

Remus puts a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Harry, it's okay."

"It's not okay, Remus. It's more Ministry idiocy." Harry takes a deep breath and glares at his former schoolmate. "I take it you extended similar hospitality to Fleur and her family?"

"Don't be absurd, Potter!" He lowers his voice. "Veela are Class III Dark Creatures, so they fall under different regulations. When we received Miss Delacour's guest list, I immediately filed for exceptions on their behalf. We wouldn't want an international incident on our hands..."

"But you didn't bother to do one for Remus? You were at Hogwarts when his status was made public, Percy. Surely you knew..."

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid there's nothing I can do."

"Fine then. Let's go, Remus." He turns to leave.

"Harry, you really should stay--I'll be fine." Remus's tone is resigned.

"Yes, Mr. Potter. As champion, you _are_ required to serve your part in this function."

Harry glares at Percy and then catches sight of his mentor in the distance, who shakes his head slightly. Harry sighs. "Fine. See you later, Remus." He pushes roughly past Percy and into the reception hall.

* * *

"Nice to meet you too, Mr. Diggory, Mrs. Diggory. It's been an honor to compete against your son," Harry says blandly, not at all in the mood to engage in the obligatory "meet and greet."

Cedric's father, a middle-aged, balding man, beams, showing a set of slightly crooked teeth between heavy lips. "Cedric has always made us proud--he's a top student and an exceptional athlete, reminds me a bit of his old man back in the day," Amos Diggory says with a throaty chuckle that only he shares. "And good looking too--like his mother. No hard feelings about Cedric's beating you, eh, Harry?" Mrs. Diggory, a petite, shy looking woman with dark brown hair, hazel eyes, and pouty lips, has the good grace to blush at Amos's compliment.

"Um, no, of course. No hard feelings, sir." Harry starts to look for a way out of the tedious conversation.

"Dad..."

"Cedric, don't be so modest. Years from now, you'll be able to tell your kids that not only did you beat the Boy-Who-Lived in Quidditch, but that you bested him in the Tri-Wizard Tournament too! How's that?"

Cedric swallows and looks at Harry, apologetic. "We only won that match because dementors attacked Harry, so it was hardly a fair competition. And you know, anything could happen tonight..."

"Nonsense. The best man won then and tonight you'll show everyone what a Diggory can do when he sets his mind to it." He claps his hand affectionately over Cedric's shoulder.

Cedric looks at Harry and clears his throat, uncomfortable. "Sorry," he mouths.

Harry shrugs, seeing his opening to leave. "I think I'm going to get some more to drink. Good luck tonight, Cedric. Sir, Ma'am, it was very nice meeting you both."

Harry walks over to the table and pours himself some ice water. He takes his time sipping his drink and scans the room over the rim of his glass. To his left, he sees the portly Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, next to a dark, prim looking man with a neatly trimmed beard, Gerard Delacour. Speaking with them is Lucius Malfoy, Bartemius Crouch Senior, and two well dressed, elderly gentlemen whom Harry doesn't recognize. Standing off to the left are Madame Maxime and Albus Dumbledore, who are conversing with the Deputy Headmistress of Durmstrang, a witch whose name Harry has forgotten. Across the room to his right, Harry spies a table full of stocky Eastern European witches and wizards, Viktor Krum's family, who are chatting with Fleur and Sandrine Delacour.

Fleur glances up at Harry and their eyes meet--after a moment, he feels a rush of affection and lonely hurt with a core of pride as she unmasks her feelings for his passive Legilimency. He nods to her and she looks away. Sighing, he walks to a nearby column and leans against it, closing his eyes to meditate on the evening's task.

Several minutes later, Harry's thoughts are interrupted by a sharp tug on his robe near his leg. He looks down and sees a diminutive, platinum-haired girl with bright blue eyes and radiant skin, the same girl who had slapped him after the last event.

"Hi Gabrielle," he says, noticing that Fleur is now speaking with the Minister and other high Ministry officials, all of whom seem to be enchanted by the beautiful witch.

"You look silly standing here by all yourself."

He nods to her and closes his eyes again.

"Ha-rrrry..." She tugs on his robes again, impatient.

"Gabrielle," he says, kneeling, "I think your family would rather if you weren't near me. They think I'm a bad person."

She thinks about this. "_Are_ you a bad person?"

"Sometimes."

She ponders this some more. "I don't think so. _Ma soeur_ says that you helped her and she couldn't have saved me if you hadn't rescued her first."

Harry shrugs. "I'm sure you would have been fine. The mermen only wanted to hurt me and my friends and I didn't even know you then."

Gabrielle whispers in his ear, "She also said that you saved her from the bad man who hurt her." Harry nods grimly at the girl and wonders how much of the story she knows. Gabrielle smiles brilliantly at him and waves, skipping to her mother, who is speaking with Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

Standing, Harry sees Fleur laughing with the Diggorys. He envies the grace with which she can navigate a room and charm all whom she meets.

"Mr. Potter?"

"Oh, hi, Mr. Bagman."

"How are you doing today? Ready for the big event?" The older man's face looks drawn and he has bags under his eyes.

"Pretty well. My shoulder is still stiff from when I dislocated it a few weeks ago,

but what can you do?"

"Yeah, what can you do... what can you do..." He looks crestfallen. "Harry, I know you're pretty far behind the other champions..." Harry nods, remembering that at last count he was 45 points behind Krum, 52 behind Cedric, and 58 behind Fleur, no thanks to his missed task and some dodgy judging. "Promise me one thing, Harry." He clasps his large hand firmly over Harry's injured shoulder.

Harry winces. "What's that, sir?"

Bagman doesn't notice. "That you'll do your best. That's all--that you do your very, _very_ best and that you don't give up." Harry nods, distracted. "Good boy." Bagman looks away. "Good luck to you this evening, Harry."

"Thank you, sir." Harry says, rolling his shoulder as he watches the heavy-set, former Quidditch star walk away.

* * *

"Lord Potter." Harry turns to see an elegant veela approach and offer her hand.

"Lady Delacour, how delightful to make your acquaintance." Harry bows formally and kisses her hand. "I do apologize for being impolite the last time we met."

"Not a problem, Lord Potter. I understand ze circumstances did not admit a proper introduction." She gives him a calculated smile. Looking at him with cold, blue-grey eyes, she whispers, "I hear, Lord Potter, that congratulations are in order, that you have been named heir to the Black family?" Harry stiffens in surprise. This is something that should not be known outside of a _very_ select few. That this woman could have found out is highly unsettling--knowledge that Sirius's will has changed recently could be used to infer Harry's closeness and contact with his fugitive godfather. Worse, she was speaking with the Malfoys just minutes before.

She eyes him with wry amusement and Harry flings up his strongest Occlumency shields. "Indeed, Lord Potter, I have excellent sources, as one must in a position such as mine..."

Harry swallows, but fails to dispel the lump in his throat. "Madame?"

"I merely wish to chat with ze Boy-Who-Lived and get to know him better." Her smile is affected, predatory. Combined with her enveloping aura, Harry starts to feel very uneasy. "This is a lovely reception, _non_?" She raises a glass of white wine to ruby lips.

Harry nods too quickly and sips his ice water as Lady Delacour makes a subtle gesture with her wand and whispers, "_calfeutre_," an incantation, he recognizes, as the privacy charm favored by the French.

"I've been informed that you like matters to be, what is ze word... straightforward? Zen I shall get to ze point. We both know that my family, we are in a difficult position, as my eldest's betrothal has been terminated." Harry nods slowly. "Given recent events, it will be difficult to find a _proper_ suitor." She gives Harry a moment to mull over what she has said and to note how she's subtly put him at a disadvantage. When he fails to deliver the unexpected counterpoint, her smile widens slightly. "Tell me, Lord Potter, are you bothered that my daughter is no longer a maiden?"

Harry coughs. Recovering, he looks the elder veela in the eyes and says, firmly, "I care very much for your daughter. I swear to you that I am bothered far more that she was hurt than whether she's a virgin."

The woman gives him an appraising look. "Indeed. Perhaps we might arrange for a more formal meeting in the future, one where we may discuss matters of... opportunity for both our families." She gives him a curt, formal nod.

Harry considers himself a novice at genteel etiquette, but it doesn't require a sage to recognize that Lady Delacour is initiating a negotiation of arranged marriage between Fleur and him. His affection for the witch notwithstanding, this is something that he cannot abide. Glancing across the room, he spots the witch, who is watching the exchange between Harry and her mother with a shocked, almost horrified expression on her face. This time Harry looks away first.

With a lump in his throat, he decides to risk a _faux pas_ and speak directly to the matter at hand. "Madam, I care very much for your daughter and I'm most concerned with her happiness. My hope for her is that she can marry for love, not alliances or family politics. She deserves nothing less, wouldn't you agree?"

Lady Delacour's eyes widen in shock. She sniffs sharply and Harry mentally curses himself for not paying more attention to Sirius's lessons. "Your reputation for brusque speech and ignorance of niceties is deserved, _Lord_ Potter." Her emphasis on his title is a slap. "Let us speak again when you are more composed." Canceling the charm, she flounces away.

Harry cannot help but notice that she did not wish him luck.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks to all who have read and reviewed. This chapter was a bit of a breather before the next two, which are more action-packed._


	15. The Final Task

Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

My thanks go to beta readers ParseltonguePhoenix, Fenraellis, and Vlad the Inhaler.

* * *

CHAPTER 15

The Final Task

* * *

"And the last champion, Harry Potter, enters... Now!"

Harry jogs to the entrance of the maze, retracing the path his opponents had made several minutes before. The thick hedgerows filling the Quidditch stadium are four meters tall and the passages are tight, with only a couple of meters of clearance in which to walk. Before entering, Harry taps his wand on his head and feels a cool sensation spread over his skin as the disillusionment charm turns his body transparent.

He steps over a ward line at the entrance and immediately feels a gust of hot air blow over his body. Looking down at his hands, he sees that they are visible again. _Damn_. He reapplies the charm, but to no avail. Settling for silencing charms on his feet, he readies his wand and continues into the maze. After several turns, he stops to use the "point me" charm to guide his passage southward, toward the end of the pitch where he knows the cup lies.

As he stops to consider where to go next, he hears a deep rumbling to his left, a sound with which he has been familiar almost since he joined the magical world.

* * *

"Harry's doing well so far, it would seem," the Headmaster says to the werewolf standing beside him. In the center of the Great Hall is a graphite-colored cube five meters to a side. On each of the four faces is a projection of one of the champions in the maze. The Headmaster, Remus, and Sirius, in dog form, are among a small contingent--all of the Weasleys, including Percy but not Ron, Harry's Quidditch teammates, several of the Hogwarts staff, and, oddly enough, Ludo Bagman--who watch Harry. Hermione Granger has positioned herself opposite a corner so that she can see Harry and Viktor both, a placement common among the majority of the younger, female students. Most of the older students are seated where they can see Krum and Cedric. Gabrielle is near the other corner, where she can watch Fleur and Harry.

"Yes, Albus, but I am concerned--something doesn't seem quite right. Call it wolf instincts."

"Perhaps..." He sees the projection of Harry look up. "Ah, I believe Harry is about to run into a bit of nostalgia." He is amused to see Hermione gasp and bring her hands up to her mouth.

A few minutes later, Remus asks, "Excuse me, Albus, but are they supposed to be chasing after him like that?" At his feet, Padfoor starts to growl.

"No, they were ordered to stand guard, not to pursue, and there were wards to keep them in place." The Headmaster rubs his brow in frustration.

"We have to stop this, Albus! There's no way Harry can handle three--Krum ran into one and barely escaped--they're spell resistant!"

"I'm afraid we cannot--the anti-tampering wards do not admit entrance unless a champion is knocked out or sends up sparks, and even then access is limited to healers."

Remus sighs deeply, his eyes not leaving the screen. He says dryly, "I'm _so_ glad Harry doesn't just have to deal with Voldemort, Albus. Otherwise he would have it far too easy."

Padfoot whimpers at his feet.

* * *

_Okay, that was a bad idea._ Harry had released his aura to savor the novelty of chasing a mountain troll through the maze. Unfortunately, it had quickly found two of its companions and its courage. The tables are turned, with Harry being pursued by three angry trolls, each armed with a spiked club as long as he is tall. He turns a corner and notes with chagrin that he is trapped in a dead end. Hurling himself against the hedges, he is dismayed that they do not give. He tries several spells--flame spells, cutting spells, blasting spells, none avail; the hedges are enchanted to be impervious. The three trolls enter the passage in single file.

He turns to face them. "_Reducto_." A thick, red bolt slams into the chest of the first, but it absorbs, failing to penetrate the thick hide. "_Abeoconci reducto_." The modified curse has little more effect than the first. _Shit_.

A third _reducto_ reduces the troll's club to kindling. Harry banishes the pieces at the troll, but they prove little more than a nuisance. It roars in fury as Harry retreats until his back is against a hedge. He concentrates and intones, "_occulus praemium_," tracing a complex, angular rune in the air with his wand. His spell, one of many dark curses he had cribbed from Sirius's family library, expels a slender, yellow lisle that streaks toward the troll's head. Harry is treated to a spray of fleshy gobbets as its eyeballs explode. The creature roars and staggers blindly, tumbling into the next troll and knocking both onto the ground.

The third troll, the one Harry had chased, climbs over the other two with a roar and starts toward Harry. In desperation, he attempts a spell he has only tried a few times, in secret, on conjured animals.

"_Imperio_." A red-pink bolt strikes the troll. Harry's head immediately clouds as he wrestles for control of the beast's mind. Strong as it is physically, Harry shatters its will with ease.

"Bash trolls with club," he thinks, trying to feed the command down the fibre connecting their minds, but the troll merely blinks stupidly. _It must not understand English_. Harry sends a vision down their link of smashing other trolls with a club. The troll leers evilly, pivots, and raises its club above its head in a two-handed grip. With a grunt, it brings the club down with full force onto the crown of the oblivious, second troll, which had been grappling the third. Its head flattens and its limbs quiver. A second, powerful strike ends in a series of loud snaps, revealing a concave impression in the chest of the remaining troll. A third blow removes its head and ends its life.

The beast continues to pound upon the lifeless corpses of its kin before Harry overrides rage and bloodlust with an image of the troll dropping its club and fleeing from humans in fear. It obliges and Harry lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

* * *

"What zee hell is zis?" Fleur asks rhetorically as she ducks flames from an armoured, two-assed, fire-belching monstrosity. She returns the volley with a freezing hex, which does little beyond coating the creature with a thin layer of frost, which quickly turns to water and then steam. Bone-breaking and cutting spells ricochet off the creature's bony carapace. Finally, her stunning spell manages to slow it for a few seconds, long enough for her to get past.

She sprints down the path and takes a quick turn at the next hedgerow, where she stumbles upon a pale, slender man wearing robes of silken midnight.

Several spectators near Fleur's face of the viewing cube gasp and scream, drawing onlookers to see what has befallen the witch. Among them are Headmasters Dumbledore and Karkaroff, who join Madame Maxime. She looks pale with worry.

* * *

"Albus," she says, her voice laced with venom, "I do not recall approving zair being _vampires_ in ze maze."

Karkaroff curses under his breath. "Not just vampires. An Old One is out there hunting. There shall be four funerals."

"Nor do I, Olympe. Igor, can you speculate on how this happened?" The Hogwarts Headmaster's brow furls with worry.

Karkaroff shakes his head. "Hogwarts wards are clearly not as potent as advertised. Old One or no, I assure you no vampire wouldhave made it into Durmstrang." The man's voice is gruff and indignant.

Albus Dumbledore sighs, feeling every one of his one-hundred-fifty-odd years. The three watch in silence as the vampire beguiles the witch and Fleur's young sister weeps nearby.

* * *

Long, cold fingers with cerise nails snake nearly all the way around Fleur's neck. She looks up into pale irises of light grey, almost white. The creature's skin is iridescent nacre and it has lips of the deepest red. Its mane is dark, shimmering, carefully styled, matching its silken cape and fine blue-black robes. A silver-pommeled sword hangs from its hip.

"Fair mortal. I do not wish to kill you. Rather, I would speak with you for a moment." Its voice is dulcet, hypnotic. Parisian French with a hint of aristocratic patois. It plucks the wand from her hand and drops it by her feet.

Fleur's knees buckle as her will leaves her. She feels slightly disgusted, yet strangely aroused at the realization that she would offer herself to this creature if asked. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind is the knowledge that this is one of the Old Ones, the feared, soulless predators of the dark places. She should be horrified, but she's not.

"Tut, tut. Do not fall--you shall come to no harm from me," it says, or perhaps whispers, as it strokes her unblemished porcelain cheek. A second arm snakes around her lower back and holds her body upright, yet close. She is at its mercy. The vampire leans over her and her head falls back lazily, exposing a tender neck. It places its nose near the base of her jaw and inhales slowly and deeply, its eyes closed.

"Fair mortal, you are blessed to be the granddaughter of Lady Prideux. You have her enchanting eyes and your veins sing with her exquisite blood." Fleur shivers as the cold beauty of this creature stirs her heart and she opens her eyes to meet its gaze. "I knew Angelique well and I was much saddened by her passing... But enough of that. Have you seen the one they call Harry Potter?" The voice, satine and silky, elicits her stammered reply before reason can intercede.

"Y-yes," she stammers, "that way." She points with a trembling hand.

"Excellent. Do be careful, mortal child, for I am quite fond of you and I would be most distressed if you were to come to harm." It gently lowers her to the turf and, in a whisper, is gone.

Fleur stills for a moment as her mind dispels from the fog of vampire's spell.

_Harry!_

* * *

_Note to self..._

Harry wraps green flame around the head of one of the fleeing human forms. A twist of his wrist, a burst of magic down his arm, and the whip burns through the neck to remove its head.

_...Inferi _hate_ the fire whip. _

He dispatches another of the deceptively agile, animated zombies by slicing through its chest with a hard lash. When the undead had first attacked, they had surrounded him and Harry was hard pressed to avoid being overcome. That is, until he remembered his new favorite spell, _tromero fotia mastigio_.

A final Inferius stands between him and freedom. Before he can advance on the retreating zombie, a pair of black wolves wreathed in flame, each the size of Fang, leap onto the shambling creature and rend it to shreds in their jaws. A moment later, the two leering beasts start to stalk Harry.

_Hellhounds? This just keeps getting better..._

* * *

Remus pulls Albus Dumbledore forcefully by the arm to where the two can see Harry's progression on the viewing cube.

His eyes are wild with anger as he points to Harry's image. "Okay, Albus, I've got to ask you, who the hell had the inspiration to put Inferi in the maze?!"

Molly huffs over to the pair with Arthur Weasley close behind.

"Inferi? Oh dear. That's what those horrid things are?" Her voice is tight with worry.

""Oh dear" is right, Mother," a pompous voice says from behind them. A red-haired Ministry official steps forward while looking at the parchment on which he has been writing. "Let me remind you, Professor Dumbledore, that Inferi are Class II Dark Creatures and that they fall under the charter of the Special Accords for Necromancy and Dark Conjuration. I know for a fact that you neither sought nor obtained authorization to use them in this Tournament. Therefore, this means that you are in violation of _several_ statutes, including, but not limited to..."

"Thank you, Mr. Weasley," the Headmaster says, cutting off the rant. "Let us deal with the problems at hand and then I assure you we will have ample opportunity to discuss just how much trouble I am in with the Ministry."

Percy frowns and hastily scribbles another note onto his parchment.

"Very well. But we shall also discuss the matter of your apprentice's casual use of Unforgivable curses..."

"Unforgivables? Harry? Oh dear..." The Headmaster rubs his eyes.

* * *

Sniff, sniff. Turn around. Sniff. _Aha! _

A brown rat scurries through a gap in the hedgerows.

Inferi are effective in close quarters, as Master said, nay _insisted_. It had taken months to track down Jaryl Selwynn, former Death Eater in hiding and the Dark Lord's acerbic chief necromancer. But an outstanding asset for the Cause, or so Master had said.

Another month to discretely purchase a matched pair of vanishing cabinets and get the Carrow bitch to charm them to allow operation through the wards. A cabinet that, magically shrunk, resides in Pettigrew's breast pocket. _Where does the stuff we hold go when we transform? _ _James tried to tell me once, something about phantom pockets of space created by the magic, but I never could figure out what he was nattering on about. _Fifteen glorious, powerful Inferi, directed by Master Selwynn had been released several minutes before. _Oh, how he insists I use his title, "Master_,"_ the puny man, whose round ass is safe in Little Hangleton_, _too bloody "valuable to the Cause"_ _to risk on this mission_.

Things were going according to plan--he was ready to transform and stun Potter from behind--until the boy had started flinging around that accursed whip. Not only did it beat back the Inferi, but it also made transformation in the cramped space too risky.

Peter Pettigrew did not survive on the lam for twelve years by taking unnecessary risks. He had valorously chosen discretion and fled. Now, he is back to tracking Potter. With luck, the plan can still go on.

His Master's words echo in his mind,_ "So simple, even you can handle it, Wormtail: Stun, portkey, return. Write it down if you must." _On the other side of the hedgerow, he raises his head and sniffs at the air. _Oh, how I hate when they laugh at me..._

"_Come, oh rodents of the earth. I summon thee to me..."_

A melodious, enthralling voice calls to him and he feels a stirring in his tiny, rodent heart. _I must heed the call_.

"_What the hell_?" he wonders as his feet scuttle on the turf, his whiskers and ears pinned back. _Why am I doing this? Don't I have a mission?_

"_Come, come to me..."_

_Yes, oh beautiful Speaker, I will answer your call_...

* * *

Harry sits up with a groan, the smoldering corpses of the Hellhounds at his feet. He gingerly wiggles his fingers--burns cover his hands and wrists--but, thankfully, his skin is only blistered in a few places and he has nearly full mobility. Catching his breath, he stands, leans against the hedgerow, and takes a moment to think, his wand out.

_Dumbledore wouldn't have put Hellhounds or Inferi in the maze, so there's something else going on. The Inferi and whoever sent the Hellhounds are not working together, so there must be two groups pursuing their own objectives. Both the Rosicrucians and Voldemort are after me. The Rosicrucians want me dead--that's a given. What does Voldemort want? The Inferi were not trying to kill--just capture. So Voldemort needs me alive for something, which means that right now the Rosicrucians are my biggest threat..._

"Yes, we _are_ your biggest threat, Mr. Potter." A cold, silky voice draws Harry's gaze. He looks up and sees a dark-clothed man near him, smirking. The man, Harry sees with his enhanced sight, has a thick, magical aura about him, a writhing blackness. He is wearing sunglasses and has... blue skin.

"_Perspicuus sol_." Even with his eyes closed, Harry is blinded momentarily by the brilliant flare. When the spots in front of his eyes fade, he notes with chagrin that the man still stands, laughing deeply.

"Nice try, mortal. Unfortunately, you are a bit behind the times." He chuckles as he draws an ornate, silver-pommelled rapier with a flourish. "Zinc oxide, a muggle invention. Most effective, _n'est pas_?" He sniffs haughtily, "Do you think I enjoy being blue?"

"Who are you?"

"Who I am is immaterial. What I am is what matters. I am an immortal commissioned to ensure that the apprentice of _le Voleur_ does not see another sunrise."

"I see. Pity."

"Indeed. I must confess, watching you as I have, I cannot but think that I would prefer to turn you--you could be a powerful lieutenant, young mortal..."

Harry rolls his eyes. "I've heard it before, from bigger and badder than you."

The blue-skinned vampire smirks condescendingly. "Worse than me? I think not."

"Voldemort." Harry shrugs.

"Perhaps then." He waves his hand and Harry hears a terrible cacophony of screeches as a river of of rats and mice stream toward him. Glancing back, he is dismayed to see that the vampire has disappeared.

* * *

Most of the Great Hall have crowded to see Harry Potter's screen. Irrespective of differences they may have had with him in the past, seeing the Boy-Who-Lived go toe-to-toe with one of the legendary Old Ones is not something to miss.

"Too bad we can't hear what they're saying to each other," Dean Thomas laments, as he puts his arm around the shoulders of a pale, shivering Ginny Weasley. The muggleborn wizard had been trying to tell his friends about a device called a television. With a practiced motion, Ginny discretely slides Dean's hand off her small breast and onto her upper arm, from where it resumes its slow, inexorable journey toward the front of her chest.

"Sound and pictures both? How daft," Ron mutters.

* * *

Yellow flames flare in front of Harry. For want of a better idea, he had scribed a ward line into the dirt, a modified _cave inimicum_ spell, which creates a security barrier, and combined it with a _flagrante_ curse, to burn anything encountering the barrier with magical fire. It seems to be keeping the bulk of the plague at bay, as evinced by the growing pile of charred rat carcasses near the base of the line, remains of vermin that had tried to push through his ward. A trickle of rats, perhaps one hundred, instead of the many thousands in the original plague, have bypassed the ward by climbing up onto the hedgerows on either side and running along the top of the maze. Harry is alternatively casting _incendio _spells at the tops of the maze to his right and left to try to force them back.

He has been mostly successful, though a few flaming rats have leaped upon him. His robes are burning in places and several claw and bite him. One scurries from the top of his head down his forehead and tries to push its nose under his eyeglasses to get at his left eye. He reaches up to grab it as another climbs up his arm and bites him on the cheek. A third scuttles onto his shoulder and bites down hard on his ear. Blood trickles from numerous bites, including one on his left eyelid, blood that seems to be driving the creatures into a frenzy.

While thrashing about trying to free himself, Harry fails to notice a silent black cloud approach from behind that solidifies into a lissome, humanoid shape with drawn sword. His precognition flares. Spinning sideways, he slams his left arm downward and his forearm meets the flat of the thrusting blade. Instead of piercing his chest, it angles downward, penetrating the imbricated scales of his armor and lodging deeply into his left thigh. He groans in pain as his eyes meet the pale orbs of the vampire, the creature's sunglasses having been knocked aside.

"_Conseco artus!" _An female voice shouts and a ribbon of blue smites the creature in its back. The powerful severing curse, which would have left a mortal wound on a human, shreds its robes and exposes pale flesh. It snarls in rage and spins toward her with knife-like fangs bared. Harry jabs the tip of his wand against the vampire's bare skin, shouting, "_perspicuus sol_!" It shrieks as its flesh begins to dissolve from the powerful, close-range sunlight spell. Harry sees tendrils of black writhe up the creature's pale skin as its body slowly decays to dust. The Old One turns to meet Harry's eyes. It nods formally, an acknowledgment of defeat, and transforms into a cloud of black vapor that moves away rapidly, as if blown by unseen wind. The rats flee, the spell broken.

"Thanks, Fleur. You saved my life," Harry pants.

"Harry! You are hurt..." Fleur rushes to him.

Harry looks down at the rapier still stuck in his thigh. Grunting, he pulls it out and touches his fingers to the wound, which oozes blood. "Damn. This will have to be closed. Would you mind, um..."

"_Oui_, I shall stand guard." Dots of color adorn Fleur's delicate cheeks as she politely averts her eyes.

"Thanks." Harry loosens his belt and slides his leggings down. His heart sinks as he notices that he cannot locate his wand--it must have been lost in the melée. "Um, Fleur, can I borrow your wand for a second? I can't seem to find mine."

"Here." She hand him her wand and then blinks as her eyes glance down at his exposed body. The two blush.

"Thanks. _Accio Harry's wand_." He sighs as his nothing happens.

He uses Fleur's wand to seal the wound on his leg, pulls up his armored trousers, and returns the wand to her. "Well, at least I have a sword."

"Do you know how to fence, Harry?"

"A little, but not much beyond the sharp bit going in the other guy."

* * *

The singed rat twitches in surprise and almost drops its quarry--Potter's wand--as it sees the Durmstrang champion fall to the Diggory kid's _Cruciatus_. _It looks like Crouch has him under the Imperius. Plan B then_.

Pettigrew, still in rat form, scurries down an adjoining passage and transforms. Reaching into his backpack, he recovers and expands the shrunken vanishing cabinet. He positions the cabinet so that the doors open in the direction of the two champions and he gives three sharp raps to the rear of the cabinet. He secures Potter's wand in his backpack and assumes rat form once again.

* * *

"Zis way, Harry..." Fleur leads a badly limping Harry toward the screams. They stop short as they arrive at a clearing where Cedric Diggory is holding Viktor Krum under the _Cruciatus_. Viktor has apparently been under the curse for a long time--his body is now unconscious, barely quivering from the spell, and his bloodshot eyes have rolled back in his head. Blood trails from his mouth where he had apparently bitten through his tongue.

"Cedric, no! Fight it!" Harry shouts, as he rushes toward the seventh year. Cedric breaks off the curse and peers at Harry with glassy eyes. After a few strides, Harry senses danger, but too late to dodge completely as a rush of brown light, Cedric's bludgeoner, clips him in the shoulder and knocks him to the turf. Fleur uses the distraction to hurl her own invisible bludgeoning curse, which knocks Cedric onto his back.

As Harry stumbles to his feet, he feels a telltale coldness creep into the back of his mind. "Fleur, dementors!" He watches in horror as Cedric sprints away from the clearing and down the passage from where the dementors are approaching. Harry races after him shouting for him to stop.

Cedric drops his wand and stands, paralyzed, as sallow, bony fingers wrap around his throat. A rattling breath sounds as a black hood lowers toward the wizard's face. Without a wand, Harry is powerless, so he stumbles back to the clearing. He finds Fleur curled into a foetal position, her whimpers of, "No, Robért..." leaving little doubt as to the memory she is reliving.

Harry picks up the veela's wand and turns to face the approaching creatures as his mother screams in his head. He closes his eyes and finds it difficult to dredge up a happy memory not tinged with sadness with which to fuel the spell. As he listens to Fleur's murmurs, he recalls their time walking in the surf in France. _Pleasant, though no longer the epitome of bliss--it'll have to do_.

"_Expecto patronum_!" A silver stag erupts from his wand. Though smaller and less substantial than others he had summoned, it is, at least, corporeal. It lowers its antlers and buries them into the first dementor, which screeches and flees. The stag backs up a few steps and charges the remaining dementor. It, too, flees with a piercing keen.

Fleur is crying on the ground next to Krum. Harry puts his hands on her shoulders and pulls her upright. "Fleur, I have to go check on Cedric. Can you stay here with Krum? His wand should be around here somewhere--try to find it if you can." She nods dumbly.

* * *

Harry's heart sinks as he approaches Cedric's insensate body. He searches the ground for the wand he had seen fall. "_Accio Cedric's wand_." Nothing. He lifts the larger boy up to his feet and pulls Cedric's arm over his shoulder to walk him back to the others.

After a minute of painful walking, he hears Fleur scream. He drops Cedric and hurries back to where he had left her. He sees a cloaked figure holding her under the _Cruciatus_ curse, which lifts when Harry enters the clearing and draws away the attention of the attacker.

"Potter," he grumbles. "Knew this would bring you."

"Moody. Or should I call you Crouch?"

The man laughs gruffly. "You knew? Figured as much. Now I'll tell you what--you drop your wand and your little pigsticker and I'll let her be. Don't, and I won't leave enough of her mind for you to worry over." Crouch has apparently played the Mad Eye role so convincingly and for so long that his argot falls naturally into that of the ex-auror's.

Harry knows he cannot surrender--Crouch had no reservations with torturing the Longbottoms to within an inch of death and Krum may never recover. Fleur would probably receive a killing curse or worse. Harry pretends to consider the offer while he gathers his magic. "Hmm. Let me see... _Stupefy_!" Harry's aura flashes as he pours a huge gout of magic into the spell. The mismatched veela wand bucks and sizzles, its tip blackening, as it releases the thick bolt.

"_Protego_." Crouch's powerful shield spell slams into place before Harry's stunner arrives--the Death Eater didn't rise as rapidly through the ranks as he did without skill to augment wealth and family connections. The man's disfigured face registers surprise as the cone-shaped streamer shatters the shield and strikes him in the chest, causing him to crumple to the ground.

"It's a Bletchly twist, you fucking idiot!" Harry screams at the now unconscious man. He takes a deep breath and starts toward Fleur. He doesn't even manage a step before his precognition signals something wrong. Very wrong.

Instinctively, he ducks low and rolls to the side as a metal disk the size of a Galleon just misses him. It bounces once on the ground and rolls up against Moody's prone body, which vanishes. Kneeling, Harry slashes upward with his rapier, his still-injured left shoulder complaining, and he lops off the left hand and forearm of his assailant, a short, mousey-looking man with a bad overbite. Peter Pettigrew.

Pettigrew fires a stunner at Harry, which he lunges to avoid. With blade in one hand and Fleur's wand in the other, it takes Harry a moment to struggle to his feet. As he does, his opponent snatches the cleaved limb from the ground and reaches into his pocket to draw out another disk. Pettigrew puts the disk between his teeth and touches his wand to it. A few seconds later, he too disappears.

* * *

Harry scans for more intruders and even fires a _visum_ flare. Seeing nothing, he offers Fleur her wand and meets her eyes briefly with a lump in his throat. "I'm sorry. If you'd have had your wand..."

She nods angrily and slaps him before recovering the proffered wand. "You should have left it to me. I could not find Viktor's and I was left defenseless. Zat man, he attacked me..." She glares at Harry.

Harry nods, penitent, and kneels to examine the Durmstrang champion's body, feeling for a pulse and finding an erratic beat. He pants, "Krum's in a really bad way--we need to get him to the hospital. I have my portkey, but it can only take two. There isn't much we can do for Cedric... a dementor got to him." He stands and hesitantly places a hand on her shoulder, causing her to stiffen under his touch. "I think you and Viktor should go, Fleur. You've been hit with the _Cruciatus_ and need to be treated."

"_Non_, I shall stay, Harry." She pulls away from him, straightening her shoulders peremptorily.

"Look, if it's about the bloody competition, you can have it! I forfeit, alright? I just want you safe."

"_You_ want? You think I care about zis stupid tournament? You are an idiot!" She turns away from him, furious.

"What then?" he shouts, exasperated.

She takes a deep breath and blows it out, turning to face him. "I cannot leave you here alone, Harry. I couldn't live with myself if zomething were to happen." Her eyes glisten.

Fixing her jaw, she steps toward him and presses her body against his, putting a hand on the back of his neck. Harry's arms encircle the small of her back and he feels dreadfully awkward so close to the graceful veela. Yet something about holding her seems so right. He is near enough to be intoxicated by her perfume, peach blossoms and cinnamon, and her radiance, as her aura wraps about him, a warm caress. His heart beats rapidly and he starts to feel dizzy. Before he realizes, their noses bump gently, then move aside as lips touch, lightly at first. The kiss deepens and he feels an electric tingle throughout his body. After a few seconds, far too short for either of them, they draw apart and each scans for danger, breathing heavily.

"Zat was your first time kissing."

Harry blushes. "Was it obvious?"

Fleur smiles mischievously. "Come, Harry. Let us get zees two to ze hospital, retrieve ze cup, and zen more kissing. You need practice."

* * *

As he watches the two separate, their faces flushed with amour, the elderly wizard frowns at the failure of his orchestrations. Falling in love is a luxury his apprentice can ill afford with a Dark Lord on the rise and Rosicrucians ruthless in prosecution of their vengeance. The Delacour witch is the one with whom Harry cannot be involved.

_Naturally, she is the one he chooses. Time to take stock of the damage_.

With practiced ease, he raises his formidable mental defenses, his face relaxing into an inscrutable mask, and he turns slowly toward Gerard Delacour. The dark haired man scowls slightly with a guarded stoicism that no doubt matches the Headmaster's own. Their eyes meet, neither yielding. Though he does not try, he knows that were he to attempt Legilimency, he would find the Rosicrucian's defenses as impenetrable as his own.

The two regard one another in silence for more than a minute before the younger man raises his left eyebrow by a hair's width. The Headmaster answers with the faintest of nods. Both acknowledge that the rules of the game have changed--a new accord must be sought, a new equilibrium in their opposition.

Dumbledore breaks their exchange and looks down at the large, black dog near his feet. It has started to howl, its wagging tail buffeting the man's robes. A quick glance to his adversary shows him to be involved in a quiet, yet intense discussion with Lady Delacour. She, no doubt, has also noticed the development and is refining her strategy accordingly.

_Plans within plans. May I yet turn this to our advantage?_

The Headmaster smiles inwardly as he recalls Harry's disastrous meeting with Lady Delacour. Reading his apprentice's range of expressions had been a triviality, as no doubt everyone of substance in the room had discovered. The matron's body language had broadcast that she was approaching Harry with a feeler on an offer of alliance, a matter which would have been simple for Harry, were he marginally competent in politics, to at least defer until after he had received guidance from his betters. Amusingly, the effort had been botched horribly when Harry grievously offended the witch. Harry is many things: courageous, talented, driven. But utterly lacking in the guile needed to survive in a world of nuance.

_A simple boy needs simple things. Miss Delacour is far from simple_.

Remus Lupin is nearby with a wry grin on his lined face. He reaches down to scratch the dog behind its ears and says, loudly enough for the Headmaster to overhear, "His first kiss--leave it to Harry to make it a highborn veela."

_Simpletons, yes, but assets as well--close to the boy, yet beholden to me. Who threatens matters?_

The youngest Weasley boy stands nearby, fuming, an obvious concern. Clearly, he cannot be permitted to confront Harry or Miss Delacour--the situation is too volatile and Harry runs the risk of severely injuring or killing the hothead. The boy's infatuation with the witch and his blind obsession with Harry is a complication, though one easily mitigated by memory and compulsion charms.

Behind him, he hears a cluck from Molly Weasley, some muttering about a "scarlet woman," ostensibly in reference to Miss Delacour and not her own daughter. Though, judging by activities of late in a well-traveled broom closet, the young witch is quietly building a reputation for herself not unlike Molly's years ago--a useful datum for leverage on both. Molly is kind, stifling, unwaveringly loyal, easy to control, yet limited in utility as far as Harry is concerned, his having outgrown a need for doting.

The Headmaster is secretly glad that he has arranged the gradual waning of affinity between Harry and the Weasleys--the boy cannot naïvely cling to them if he is to rise to prominence. Though Molly disapproves of Harry's association with the veela, Harry must not be permitted to discuss the matter with her, as she will parse it in irrelevancy and polarize him against the proper outcome. No, the first mention should be made by one who can operate with the requisite delicacy.

The Headmaster's frowns as he considers how to manage his charge in such a way that steers, yet does not alienate him. In his heart, he knows is a pity that Harry cannot be permitted to remain with the witch--she is quite strong and talented and Harry does love her so.

_You pose a difficult challenge indeed, dear boy..._

* * *

Harry and Fleur step carefully around the mortally wounded acromantula, its hairy limbs--the few still attached to its massive body--quivering in death, and they make their way to the finish.

"Fleur, you're the rightful champion. You take the cup." He cannot believe how anyone can remain so enchanting when covered in muck and blood.

"You take it, Harry. You rescued me from torture and saved me from ze dementors."

"Shall we both then?" The rules state that the first to the cup wins the tournament. A tie?

"_Oui_," she says, stepping toward Harry and snaking an arm around his the small of his back as he does the same to her. They hold each other close for a moment and share a quick kiss. Harry sees that her expression is distant: cautious relief and no small amount of sadness.

"On _trois_, Harry. _Un_..." The sound of her voice stirs his heart. "_Deux_..."

Their hands touch the handles of the goblet on the unspoken, "_Trois_."

Harry feels a familiar jerk behind his navel.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks to those who have read and reviewed. My apologies for the cliff-hanger (in my defense, JKR did the same). Am I right in guessing that I'll get lynched if the first line of the next chapter is, "Kill the spare!"_

_Two more chapters to go. I'll try to get the next one up soon._


	16. Resurrection

Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

My thanks go to beta readers ParseltonguePhoenix, Fenraellis, and Vlad the Inhaler. And for those who have taken the time to read and review.

I wish to apologize in advance for back-to-back cliffhangers. Those who don't like them might wish to delay reading for a few days until I publish the final chapter of this story, Chapter 17.

* * *

CHAPTER 16

Resurrection

* * *

The two land in the Great Hall and Harry falls awkwardly onto his hands and knees. Red-faced, he stumbles to his feet. Percy Weasley, acting in Crouch's stead, announces over the din an awards ceremony in an hour's time and the two champions are carted to the infirmary on canary yellow litters that the Headmaster conjures.

His wounds dressed, Harry limps back to the Great Hall with a retinue of Albus, Remus, and Sirius, in dog form. Harry leans heavily on Remus, the damage to his thigh from the vampire's blade proving difficult to heal.

As they pass through the doors to the Hall, Harry is surprised and slightly annoyed to hear loud cheers from the assembly of students and spectators, the self-same students who ostracized and taunted him a day before. Dumbledore whispers smugly, "Smile, Harry. As I said, today you are their hero and you must act the part." Disgusted, Harry manages a wooden smile, saccharine, and waves, an action which elicits more cheers.

Albus leaves Harry to go speak with the other Headmaster and Headmistress. Shortly afterwards, Sirius growls as Percy Weasley approaches with Bagman and four aurors in tow, the Ministry officials dressed in deep blue robes with gold accents. The escort includes the same pair who had questioned Harry after the first task, a quiet, broad-shouldered man of African descent and a junior auror, Tonks, whose hair flashes through a range of colors. Tonks winks cheekily and gives Harry a small wave. Bagman, Harry notices, looks genuinely happy and relaxed, the first time Harry has seen him so since before the first task. He starts to move forward to shake Harry's hand, but Percy intercedes, stepping in front of the larger man.

The former Head Boy crosses his arms self-righteously. "Mr. Harry James Potter, though the rules committee..." He turns his head and frowns at Bagman. "...have chosen not to act on my recommendation to invalidate your questionable victory, in my capacity as Acting Undersecretary for the Ministry, I ask that you remain after the ceremony for questioning over your liberal use of dark and at least one Unforgivable curse in the final task. As well as your role in the release of several dark creatures into the maze, one of which caused grave injury to one of your fellow champions..." He peers over the rims of his glasses at Dumbledore, whose back is turned.

Harry shakes his head in disbelief. "Whatever, Perce. Do I have a choice in the matter?"

"No, Potter." He bristles at Harry's use of his family nickname.

"Then why phrase it as if I do? Fine, I'll chat with the nice aurors after your little show, though I expect us also to discuss how Peter Pettigrew was out there tonight and not dead, like the rest of the world thinks."

"Don't be preposterous..." Percy stops as Padfoot starts to growl at him. Harry catches the eye of the youngest auror and blinks as her face morphs into that of Percy's, complete with waggling eyebrows, before turning back into the pink-haired woman.

"Percy, if you'll excuse me..." He pushes past and limps up the stairs and onto the makeshift stage that has been erected. Harry settles onto a steel folding chair between Fleur, who is speaking to her young sister and Viktor Krum, now conscious, with bloodshot eyes and shaking limbs. Harry smiles at Fleur, who answers with her own shy smile and places her hand in his for moment before pulling it back onto her lap. Gabrielle smiles broadly at Harry and giggles.

"Harry Potter." Harry turns toward Krum. "Vould like to tank you. Dey say you saving me from torture and dementor." Krum's voice is ragged, his earlier screams having ruptured his vocal cords.

Harry shrugs. "Are you going to be okay--will this affect your ability to play Quidditch?"

"Vill be fine." He coughs. "Two, three months, den back to beating England. Question Potter--you haff my vand?"

Harry shakes his head. "No. I lost mine too and we couldn't find Cedric's either. I think Pettigrew or Moody got them." Krum nods gruffly.

Amos Diggory, seated to the other side of Krum and standing in for his catatonic son, looks over at Harry at the mention of Cedric's name. Harry leans forward and says to the man, "I'm sorry, sir, that I couldn't get there faster and, um, for your loss..."

He answers with a curt nod, his face a mask of devastation and dolour.

* * *

Percy Weasley strides confidently to the oak podium erected at the front of the stage. In his left arm, he holds four black velvet boxes, each resembling what Harry had once seen his Aunt receive from her jeweler. Under his right is a wide, rolled up parchment. The three champions and Amos Diggory sit in a semi-circle to the right of the podium and the Headmasters and Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, sit to the left upon comfortable armchairs.

Harry realizes to his annoyance that his own seat, a steel folding chair, lacks padding. With his left thigh wrapped tightly in bandages, he cannot bend his leg very far and must hold it in an awkward position that numbs his foot and leg. He regrets having removed his armor when Poppy had treated his wounds--he could use the extra padding now.

Percy sets the boxes onto a small shelf built into the the podium and clears his throat loudly before unrolling the parchment and flattening it on the angled surface. He places a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, accented in gold, upon his nose, pulls out a pocket watch, and places it open upon the podium.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, on behalf of the Ministry of Magic..."

"Weatherby!" Fudge whispers loudly.

Percy turns and sees the Minister pointing to his throat and mouthing a word. After several tries, understanding dawns on the junior official's face and, with a blush, he turns back to the crowd.

"_Sonorous_. Sorry. Thank you, Minister. Ladies and Gentleman, on behalf of the Ministry of Magic, we wish to welcome you to this ceremony, which marks the end of the Tri-Wizard Tournament and which will culminate with the formal presentation of awards. Indeed, The Tri-Wizard Tournament is a momentous event, one which has evidenced the highest level of sportsmanship and ability among the champions and schools..."

Harry's attention wanders from the droning as he scans the crowd, a vague sense of malaise growing in the back of his mind. Most of the students from the three schools have gathered and appear as bored as he is by the speech. Scattered throughout the crowd are several Ministry officials and prominent members of British magical society. His face warms as he takes in the size of the assembly and connects that datum with what the twins had told him about how a "bigger than life" Harry Potter was seen by all to drop his trousers.

"...Indeed, the competitiveness of our champions evinces the virtues that our societies collectively hold dear and they provide us with a metric by which we may measure our own less auspicious accomplishments..."

Harry glances to the right and sees Krum's eyelids dropping, the Bulgarian succumbing to the same bone-weariness that Harry feels. Looking to the left, he meets Fleur's eyes and they exchange uncomfortable smiles. Like him, her injuries have been treated and her tattered, ruined robes have been replaced by a fresh, powder-blue, Beauxbatons uniform. Her left arm is set in a splint and she sports bandages on her neck and face. Her eyes, bloodshot before from the effects of the Cruciatus curse, are much clearer.

"...though this event has not been unmarked by tragedy, and our condolences go out to the Lovegood and the Diggory families, the sacrifices made by Miss Lovegood and Mr. Diggory will not be forgotten. Indeed, their fate underscores the need for aggressive, proactive measures to be taken with regard to the freedoms we afford half-bred creatures, sub-human species, and including and especially, dark creatures..."

Harry sits bolt upright at that. _How dare the Ministry try to score cheap points off Luna and Cedric!_ He glances at Remus, who stands near the front of the stage; the werewolf seethes. Beside him is Sirius, in dog form, with teeth bared. Harry also notices Ron Weasley in the front row near the two with an absent look on his face, as if waiting for something. Harry is perplexed by this behavior, but the muted applause marking the end of Percy's speech interrupts his thoughts. Harry claps politely and nudges Viktor with his elbow. The seeker starts, his doze interrupted, and he nods to Harry his thanks.

"I ask the champions to please step forward." Fudge now stands at the front of the podium and Percy is holding the boxes to the side. The Minister addresses them, "These medallions, which you are about to receive, recognize your remarkable accomplishments. Weatherby here will put a charm on each so that only you may wear them. First, let us recognize our first-ever Tri-Wizard _co-_champions, Fleur Delacour, of Beauxbatons Academy, and Harry Potter of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Champions?" Harry and Fleur step forward, Harry limping painfully on his gimpy leg, and they stand next to one another at the front of the stage near Percy. Harry's starts to feel a strong sense of unease and he wishes he were wearing his armor or holding a wand.

Percy shakes Fleur's hand formally and says, "Congratulations, Miss Delacour." He opens a box and takes out a round, two-toned golden medallion on a fine, white gold chain. The medallion is yellow and white gold, embossed with an imprint in the shape of the Goblet of Fire. He drapes the medal over Fleur's head and touches his wand to it, muttering an incantation. It glows briefly with a faint green light and Harry sees the inscription along the bottom of the medallion change to include her name and the date.

Percy then steps in front of Harry. "Potter," he says with disgust. He places a similar medallion over Harry's head and touches his wand to it. Meeting Harry's eyes, he sneers, "_Portus_."

* * *

Panic ensues as Harry vanishes. The small contingent of aurors rush the stage as the Headmaster bolts from his chair, his hand slipping within the breast of his robes. Percy turns his wand upon himself before the Headmaster can draw his wand and get a spell off. He touches its tip to his forehead and says, "_obliviate_." Eyes roll back into his head as a pencil-thin ray of red buries into his back and he collapses to the stage, unconscious.

Ron steps forward, his wand aimed at his prone brother. "_Avad_..."

With a snarl, Padfoot leaps upon the boy and closes powerful jaws around his wand hand. Metacarpals snap and Ron screams as he fall to the ground. Snatching the dropped wand in its mouth, the dog twists its head and flings it away, then lunges at the boy's torso and pins him beneath its bulk. Baring its teeth, it growls savagely, its nose inches from the boy's face.

"S-Sirius Black?!" he stammers in surprise as the Headmaster's second stunner leaves him unconscious.

* * *

"Wakey, wakey."

Harry is shaken roughly. Opening his eyes, he finds himself in a cemetery bound to a tall, white marble tombstone. Nearby is an abandoned stone chapel, its windows boarded, its facade crumbling with age and weather, next to a gnarled yew tree. A ruined manor stands in the distance atop a small hill, two of the narrow, upper floor windows flickering amber with candlelight inside.

A short, obese man with grey, untrimmed hair, brown teeth, and the sour stink of old sweat pats Harry on the cheek with pudgy fingers. "Wakey, Potter, it's time," his voice rasps. The man's flabby jowls and heavy lips slur his speech. He is robed in black and has a dagger with a bone pommel, stained yellow, tucked in his belt. Harry can see several runes carved into the hilt and the object exudes a thick aura of darkness.

"Time for what?" he coughs.

"You'll see." The man ambles to a cauldron set in the center of a clearing. Several of the headstones have been arranged in a circle to create a standing stones configuration that Harry recognizes as common to many ancient rituals, light and dark. Harry can see the glow of a magical binding about the area, a circular border several meters in diameter with faint natal lines crisscrossing the circle and binding the stones. Glowing runes have been carved onto several of the markers and have been sealed with blood. Harry is bound to the largest, most prominent stone, which lies at the head of a modified pentalpha.

"Bone of father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son," the man chants and nods to another short man, Pettigrew, who stumbles to the edge of the circle carrying a femur in his right hand. Harry feels a small amount of gratification upon seeing that Pettigrew is still missing his left.

"Selwynn, how long will this take?" he whispers. The obese man glares at the other as he seizes the bone and drops it into the cauldron, stirring the contents with a long, glass rod and chanting in a low voice.

After several minutes, the clouds part and a full moon beams onto the cemetery. Selwynn waddles to Pettigrew, taking care not to step outside the circle, and points at the man's feet, where a stoppered, crystal vial lies next to a swaddled bundle. Pettigrew hands the container to Selwynn, who crosses back to the cauldron.

"Life blood of twain, offered in summer's moon, you shall anchor his soul." He unstoppers the vial and pours its dark contents into the cauldron. Brown vapor rises from the cauldron and Harry sees it come almost alive, making half-formed, demonic shapes. Thick magical ribbons of dark red flail from the cauldron and attach to two of the headstones in the circle. Harry can barely make out the faded letters, "Riddle" on the nearest, possibly an ancestor of Voldemort's.

Barty Crouch Jr., having shed his costume as the grizzled ex-auror, appears. He is a lanky man with short, dark hair, angular face and wild, darting eyes. He holds up a burlap bag containing two lumpy masses. Harry has a hunch what is inside and his gorge rises. Like Pettigrew and Selwynn, Crouch is robed in black. Catching Pettigrew's eye, he whispers, "Reckon Nagini will like the snack?" Peter sickens visibly at his words, confirming Harry's suspicions.

"Scale of Serpent King, shed in mortal conflict, lend him your strength!" Selwyn reaches into a pouch at his waist and withdraws a reptilian scale about the size of Harry's hand and drops it into the cauldron. From his vantage, it looks to Harry as if it may have come from the basilisk he slew two years prior. _Is there another way into the Chamber of Secrets_?

Smoke rises from the cauldron rim, turning blue and acrid. Harry feels a steady draw upon his magic. He looks down and sees a gossamer lisle of dark grey connecting his chest over his heart, where he had set his focus rune, to the prominent sigil inscribed on the side of the cauldron. He looks with alarm to Selwynn.

"Noticed it, did yer?" The man chuckles, the kind of contented belly laugh one expects at a family dinner, not the darkest of necromantic rituals. The man's face, colored crimson from the flames, is demonic.

"Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master!" He nods at Peter, who steps forward, tears trailing down his face, his severed left hand and wrist in his right hand. He drops the flaccid limb into the cauldron and Harry hears a loud burble as the liquid froths vigorously. Pettigrew stumbles backward, falling onto his bum, and crab-walks backwards out of the circle.

"Idiot! Watch yourself." Selwynn hisses, bending at the waist to inspect the ground where Pettigrew had landed and Harry notes more runes scratched into the dirt around the cauldron. They are of a form Harry cannot decipher, but resemble the death and rebirth glyphs found on Egyptian sarcophagi. Selwynn draws his dagger and scores additional marks into the ground.

"Fang of daemon, beast of old. We bathe thee in venom from a serpent sated on the flesh of the pure. Lend thy kin power over darkness." Selwynn drips yellow liquid from a small vial onto a thumb-sized, serrated tooth that he drops into the cauldron. Three more natal ribbons, copper in color, lash out from the cauldron to fasten onto nearby headstones. The pull on Harry's magic becomes acute and he collapses against his bindings, his knees buckled. He lifts his head slowly and he sees Selwynn next to him, dagger drawn.

"And now for the good part," he wheezes, gathering his breath. He shouts, dramatically, "Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you shall resurrect your foe!" He makes an incision on Harry's left arm near the crook of his elbow and a trickle of blood flows down his arm. Selwynn captures the spilled blood in a small glass vial. He fills a second vial and stashes it in his pouch. "Just in case." He winks, patting Harry gently on the cheek and waddles back to the cauldron, where he adds the contents of the first vial.

As the first drop touches the surface, the strand connecting Harry to the cauldron thickens to the diameter of his wrist and pulses brightly. Harry feels a withering pain rack his body. His mouth, a rictus of agony, his eyes clenched tightly, Harry misses seeing Selwynn splash the contents of the swaddled bundle into the cauldron.

A deep rumbling sounds as the liquid bubbles violently. The circle is suddenly bathed in moonlight, as if a spotlight were turned on from the heavens. Each natal line solidifies and brightens as beams of crystalline light connect the stones about the edge of the circle. White smoke rises just above the rim of the cauldron, becoming progressively thicker, more substantial. Harry's chest hollows from the oppressive pull on his magic.

In a moment, the smoke fades and a crouched, humanoid shape is left. It straightens and steps over the rim of the cauldron. Standing more than two meters tall, it is slender and powerful, its hands ending in long, snake-like fingers with sharp, knife-like talons. Its skin, covered in places by fine scales, has a network of faintly glowing glyphs, including a agglutination of what Harry recognizes as power enhancement runes covering its bald head and running down its neck to the small of its back. Harry sees that the magical strand that before had connected his chest to the cauldron now joins at the base of the creature's spine, its bright glow making a halo in the moonlight.

"Robe me." A high-pitched voice rasps. Selwynn reaches up to drape dark, silken robes about its shoulders. The creature inspects its arms, its hands, its body, then throws its head back and laughs maniacally. It looks down to the necromancer and smiles wickedly, baring sharp teeth. "Well done, my faithful servant. You have proven your quality today."

It turns toward Harry and glares at him with terrifying, serpentine eyes--irises of crimson and slitted pupils. Harry's breath catches as his eyes meet those of his arch-nemesis. With his enhanced sight, he recognizes the runic cluster on Voldemort's face in an unbroken line across the front of its head. Its flattened nose, mere twin slits, provides a flat expanse of skin that enables continuity of the complex runes. _No wonder he did that to his face--he wanted an unbroken Ptolemic cluster around his head. Merlin, the power he must have_...

"Wand." Pettigrew stumbles forward, genuflecting, and kneels clumsily to offer a black, yew wand to Voldemort. "Rise, Wormtail." The quivering man does so. "Give me your arm." Shaking in fear, he offers his left arm to his Lord. Voldemort makes a casual flick and Pettigrew's robes and bandages covering his stump disappear. He touches the tip of his wand to the Dark Mark near the man's elbow and the flesh glows red and then inky black. Peter whimpers as Selwynn and Crouch reflexively grab their forearms and gasp at pain they haven't felt in more than a decade. Harry screams as his scar flares and his head feels as if it were cleaved in two.

The Dark Lord looks up at the sound. "Potter," he hisses, his snake-like tongue flicking over his teeth. "Your precious mother is not here to save you--her protection will no longer avail. Tonight, as I ascend to my destiny, your corpse shall lie unmarked and unheralded."

Popping surrounds as black-robed Death Eaters answer their master's call. Upon arriving, they kneel before their Lord and unmask. Harry recognizes several--Lucius Malfoy, the elder Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott, Walden McNair.

They watch, amused, as Voldemort places an index finger upon Harry's scar. It smokes and sears and Harry thrashes his head as he tries unsuccessfully to evade the man's touch. Voldemort draws his hand back and traces the runes on Harry's face with leathery fingers.

Scoffing, he steps back. "I see that the old fool has been teaching you, Potter. No matter--you shall die all the same. _Crucio._" A thick, crimson beam arcs from his wand and strikes Harry in the chest. Harry thrashes against his bindings as excruciation of an intensity he had never before felt tears through him. After several seconds of white-hot knives, the curse lifts. Harry feels himself on the verge of losing consciousness, his reservoir of magical energy draining rapidly.

Energized, Voldemort looks up at those who have assembled. "Loyal servants, many of you have heeded my call, yet others stayed away..." Harry watches as Voldemort paces before the cowering group. Though he cannot hear the words, over the next several minutes, he sees the Dark Lord speak with each, torturing some, stroking the faces of others. Malfoy, Harry is pleased to see, receives a particularly long exposure to the _Cruciatus _curse, as does Pettigrew, though afterward Voldemort creates a silver hand for the traitor. Throughout, Voldemort's presence is commanding and terrible, the fear he incites in his followers, palpable.

Voldemort laughs, a high pitched cackle, and returns to where Harry is bound. Harry feels the tug on his magic strengthen as Voldemort nears. "Untie him, Wormtail, and return his wand." He addresses his Death Eaters, "You were wrong to fear this boy over me, as I shall demonstrate. You _have_ been taught to duel, haven't you, Potter?"

* * *

"I said, "_Bow_!"" Voldemort snarls as Harry lurches forward onto hands and knees. A moment before, after he had thrown off the Dark Lord's _Imperius_ curse, Harry had allowed himself to feel a moment of triumph, a respite curtailed by the awesome force of Voldemort's next spells. _Simultaneous casting, invisible bludgeoning curses to my stomach, behind my shoulders, even the backs of my knees--Merlin, I am so outmatched_...

Harry stands slowly, his chin fixed in defiance, and he assumes a dueling stance: body sideways, legs slightly bent, weight balanced evenly on the balls of his feet.

Voldemort sneers at him, sibilantly extruding his 'S's, "So you _have_ had training on the subject, yet you do not recognize the nicetiesss? I had expected better from Dumbledore's... apprentice."

Harry's sense of foreboding flares and he hastily raises a shield as his adversary hurls yellow flame from his wand, a blasting curse of incredible power and speed. The curse crashes into his shield with a shower of sparks and Harry is hurled back against the headstone to which he was bound. He glances up at the stone and reads "Thomas L. Riddle." Beneath the lettering, a crude, angry rune is gouged into the marble. Attached to the rune is a gossamer thread of magic, similar to the one joining him and Voldemort, that binds him to the headstone.

"Yes, Potter, the grave of my muggle father," he says quietly, so that only the two can hear. "This site has seen the deaths of both Tom Riddles and, twice, the birth of Lord Voldemort. It shall also be _your_ undoing." He hurls a violet scythe of energy, a dark cutting curse, which Harry dodges, but only barely, its edge shredding Harry's robes. The curse doesn't shatter the headstone, but instead the rune glows for a second as the curse dissipates. At the same time, a wave of dizziness passes over Harry and he feels a drain upon his magic.

Rolling out of his lunge, Harry stands and slashes his wand, uttering, "_sectumsempra_." Voldemort absently flicks the severing curse away, where it cleaves apart one of the grave markers outside the circle.

"Mildly intriguing, Potter." His voice drips with condescension as he folds his arms.

Harry screams the incantation for an over-powered blasting curse, his aura flaring. In a blur of movement, Voldemort deflects the strike, sending it toward the row of Death Eater spectators. Most dodge or shield, though Crabbe is struck by the brunt of the curse. It blows him backwards, imploding his shield and crushing his head.

"A visible aura?" he taunts. "Magical flatulence. Surely you've learned better control than that from the old..."

"_Stupefy." _ A thick bolt, the diameter of Harry's thigh, flies toward his opponent. Harry finishes his spell with a wrist flick that creates a conical streamer allowing the hex to penetrate most magical shields. Disgusted, Voldemort slaps the hex into the ground. Harry staggers as he feels himself weaken.

"A stunner?" he japes. "I suppose you'll try to _disarm_ me next?"

Harry narrows his eyes and twists his wand, quietly uttering, _"tromero fotia mastigio."_ A long lash of green flame snakes out of Harry's wand. He draws it back slowly and then whips the lash over his shoulder. The crack thunders through the graveyard. Voldemort answers with a slashing, looping motion of his wand. To Harry's dismay, the flame whip snips from his wand and tangles in his clothing, lighting his robes on fire. As he freezes the flames, he realizes that with the runic links intact, each spell syphons more energy from him and directs it into the wards and his opponent.

"You do have a slight bit of skill, Potter, though I am mildly disappointed that you pose no greater test of my ability. Now it is my turn." Harry's precognition erupts and he tries to dodge to the side. However, as Voldemort casts his severing curse, he simultaneously and silently transfigures a patch of grass near Harry's feet into a venomous, brambly vine that binds his opponent's left leg. Harry gasps as he finds himself unable to avoid the oncoming scythe of energy. The violet bolt knifes into his abdomen just below the ribcage on his right side. Blood splashes out of the fresh wound.

"_Avada Kedavra_," Voldemort intones, an edge to his voice. From his prone position, Harry cannot dodge, so he hastily erects a transhield. The killing curse shatters the shield and sprays Harry's face with hot shards of marble. A jagged, yellow beam follows, and Harry rolls away from it, still bound. Instead of striking him mortally on the head, the bone-breaking curse shatters his left clavicle and several of his ribs on his back.

"_Crucio_." Harry's body incinerates in a pyre of white flame and his teeth bite through something soft. He struggles valiantly through the agony to raise his wand, but finds his wand arm bound by brambly vines as well--more simultaneous casting.

Voldemort steps closer to lord over his immobilized opponent. "Tsk, tsk. Done in so quickly. Goodbye, Potter. _Avada Kedavra_."

Bound as he is, Harry knows he has no chance to dodge and even if his arm were free, it would be futile to attempt a transhield--at such close range he would be crushed by the slab.

In desperation, he chances that while the runic circle prevents him from Apparating away, he might, in fact, move to a different location within the circle. As Voldmort's wand glows sickly green with the onrushing curse, he disappears with a quiet "pop" and reappears on Voldemort's flank near the headstone to which he had been bound. The curse chars the ground beneath where he was.

"Potter!" Voldemort roars, scanning for the boy. "It is unthinkable cowardice to Apparate from an honor duel!"

Harry knows that he cannot continue, that the leeching of his magic from the runic circle has left him barely enough strength for a last spell.

Standing, he gathers to the fore all of the misery, the anger, the despair he has felt over his life as a result of the beast before him. He raises his wand, his bloodied arm only barely obeying. His strength is spent, his defeat to his newly resurrected foe, imminent. Drawing a rattling breath, he focuses on his hatred of Voldemort and utters two words he had never expected would pass his lips in anger.

"_Avada Kedavra_."

A sickly green bolt writhes from the end of his wand and slams into its target. As it does, Harry feels a profound emptiness, as if a part of him has just died.


	17. Love and Loss

Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

CHAPTER 17

Love and Loss

* * *

"'Arry?" A soft, feminine voice near his head asks.

Harry opens one eye a crack and, though blurred with nearsightedness, sees a stunningly beautiful, platinum blonde woman beaming at him. Her warm, soft hand holds his and she has a tiny crease of concern on her forehead between perfect eyebrows.

"Now I know I've died and gone to heaven," he says weakly.

"Zat has to be ze worst line I have ever heard!" Fleur's voice is offended, though Harry can see relief on her face. She squeezes his hand more tightly as her eyes rim with tears.

"Oh, I can do much worse, I promise. I've got the twins to thank for that. How about, 'You must be a hell of a thief because you stole my heart from across the room?'"

"Stop!" she shouts, laughing in spite of herself. Familiar snickers come from a pair of red-haired blurs on the other side of the room.

"Oh, honestly, will you two grow up?" A brown-haired blur says, exasperated.

Harry grins cheekily. "Your legs must be tired, because you've been running through my mind... mmfff." He is kissed soundly by the veela before he can finish.

"See there, Hermione? Our pick-up lines _do_ work. And on a veela no less." Fred nudges his brother and points to the pair.

"True, but you have to be Harry Potter to pull them off," George says, his voice grave with mock sadness.

"Indeed, even in my youth, such piffle rarely proved successful." The Headmaster, dressed in ostentatious robes of orange and yellow velvet, parts the drawn curtain and ducks into the room.

"Oi, Professor. You're a Cannons fan?" Fred asks.

He chuckles and looks at the boy over half-moon lenses. "Indeed, Mr. Weasley. I even recall the last time the Chudley Cannons had a winning season--I believe it was in my youth." His face becomes more serious and he clears his throat. "I'm sure you all wish to speak with Harry, but would you indulge an old man fifteen minutes of time first?" The students nod and file out of the room as Harry reaches for his glasses. Fleur squeezes his hand a final time and parts with a relieved smile.

The Headmaster's demeanor changes as the last of Harry's visitors passes through the curtains. His wand blurs as he rapidly raises a series of privacy and alarm wards about the curtains and quickly moves to Harry's bedside, his face drawn in anxiety and grief.

He speaks rapidly and in a low voice, "Harry, we have little time, so let us get down to business. You're under guard by the Ministry and now that you've woken, they will be sending aurors to question you soon. They still have your wand and a _prior incantato_ showed Unforgiveables, including a killing curse. We need to prepare for your questioning. Can you tell me, briefly if possible, what happened?"

"Voldemort is back," he says flatly.

"A few more details would be helpful, Harry. What happened after you left the Hall?"

Harry nods and lowers his eyes. "I was taken away by portkey and stunned immediately after I arrived. Pettigrew, Crouch, and some wizard called Selwynn did some kind of ritual that allowed Voldemort to rejoin his body. They used my blood and apparently my mother's protection isn't active anymore. He summoned his Death Eaters to him--I counted twenty-two who showed up, but the only others I recognized were Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and McNair, though I might have killed Crabbe."

Harry coughs roughly, thankful that he was unconscious through the ordeal of Skele-Grow treatment for his shoulder and back, and the Headmaster conjures a glass of water and offers it to him. Nodding his thanks, he sips and continues, "Voldemort returned my wand so that he could duel me and show them that he was strong, that his first defeat was a fluke. He toyed with me for awhile, draining my magic into the runic circle and into him, and generally bloody beating me. Then, as he was about to finish me off with a killing curse, I got away." Harry tries to set the glass on the table near his bed, but his hands shake with the rawness of the memory and he knocks it onto the floor, where it lands with a crash.

The Headmaster's brow furls as he vanishes the shattered glass. He puts his hand over Harry's. "Harry," he says gently, "what about the killing curse?"

"You have to understand--I was about to die, Albus. He was so much stronger, I didn't even come close to landing a spell on him. He was just standing there, laughing, ready to finish me... I knew I couldn't Apparate out, so in desperation I went to another place within the circle. Then I destroyed the binding rune with a killing curse." The memory of the curse raises bile in Harry's throat, but he continues, "Other spells just absorbed into the rune, but I knew that the killing curse can't be blocked. There was an explosion and I came to before he or his Death Eaters could get to me. I Apparated a short distance away and then I think I passed out because I woke up here. What happened?"

Dumbledore nods, frowning. "I'm curious to know how you learned to cast the Unforgivables, Harry, but that's a tale that will have to wait for another day. I shall start with what happened after you disappeared. Percy Weasley made your medal into a portkey, as you know..."

"Bastard!" Harry interrupts, remembering, "I'm going to kill him."

The Headmaster shakes his head sadly. "No need. His mind has been destroyed. He obliviated himself just after you left."

"Self-obliviated?" Harry shivers. "_Imperius_ curse?"

Dumbledore nods. "Mr. Crouch's."

"Um, this is going to sound bad, but why didn't Crouch just have him cast a killing curse or severing curse on his neck or something?"

"I suspect that since the _Imperius_ curse was used to plant a command to be carried out without the reinforcement of Mr. Crouch's presence, he was worried that an order to commit suicide might risk shocking Mr. Weasley into breaking the curse. As it was, they had backup--Percy's younger brother Ronald was also under Crouch's control. He started to cast a curse that would have slain his brother, but we managed to stop him in time. We found out where you were and I created a portkey for myself and several others. Upon our arrival, the Death Eaters and Tom Apparated away and we found you shortly afterward."

Harry nods and then frowns, confused. "How did you know where I was? Did Ron know about the graveyard?"

The Headmaster stands and turns away from Harry. "No, I'm afraid I had no choice but to recover that information from Percy Weasley's mind, damaged though it was. We knew he had the information we sought; he needed it to make your portkey."

The sick feeling in Harry's stomach grows. "Albus, didn't you teach me that deep Legilimency on an injured mind could damage it beyond repair?"

The old man sits at the end of the bed near Harry's feet, his face still turned away. "Yes, that is true, Harry. I confess, doing so to Mr. Weasley was a most difficult choice. In the end, I chose the salvation of our world over a faint hope of recovery for a damaged boy. I am sorry if this disturbs you--I assure you that my decision shall haunt me always." He turns toward his apprentice, his face a mask of defeat. "It is a terrible burden, leadership. If only we could avoid these sacrifices, Harry."

Harry sighs deeply. He had never felt much affinity for the arrogant brother of his former friend, but he hadn't wished for him to become a vegetable either. Suddenly, something Albus said nags him.

"Albus, you said, 'sacrifices?' Who else did we lose?"

He pointedly avoids Harry's eyes. "I don't think now is a good time to discuss this, as our time is short. We should lay out our strategy for dealing with the aurors."

Harry grits his teeth. "Who else, Albus?"

"Please, Harry..."

"Albus, tell me or kindly get the hell out and I'll deal with them myself!"

The Headmaster sighs deeply. "After you were taken and Percy obliviated himself, Ron Weasley started to cast a killing curse, but he was stopped by your godfather. Unfortunately, all this happened while in his animagus form in front of the Minister and aurors. The peculiarity was noted and the Minister ordered him seized. In summary, Sirius's animagus status was unmasked and he was taken into custody."

"He'll get a trial now, won't he?" Harry asks, hopeful.

Dumbledore's shoulders slump. "A trial was scheduled, yes, when irregularities in

his incarceration were brought to light..." He pauses.

"What aren't you telling me, Albus?" Harry's fists clench tightly.

"Harry, Sirius's testimony, along with Peter Pettigrew's appearance in the maze, would have embarrassed several parties, including the Minister. You no doubt recall his behavior at the end of last term..." His voice tightens, "I did all I could to keep your godfather here under my custody until the trial, but I underestimated what my colleague was prepared to do to protect his reputation." He swallows heavily, his eyes watery. "I'm afraid that Mr. Black was found dead in his prison cell this morning while awaiting trial. The Ministry is, of course, claiming suicide."

Harry's world crashes around him. _Sirius? Dead?_

* * *

"Madame Bones, Mr. Potter is here as you requested. Do you need me to stay?" Tonks, Harry's escort says in a subdued voice.

"No thank you, Auror Tonks. That will be all. Enter, Mr. Potter." She takes a parchment from the open folder before her and starts to read.

Tonks pats Harry gently on the back and gives him a genuine smile. "You hang in there kid--I'll be just outside and down the hall. Come by when you're through, 'kay sweets?" She winks at the depressed, exhausted boy.

Harry nods his thanks and ambles into the large office, his crutches supporting his weight. He stands stiffly before the desk, shoulders back, gaze fixed on the old, sinewy woman seated before him. She wears a monocle attached to a fine, steel chain that clips to her collar. Her left eye, its iris deep blue, scans rapidly over the report held in strong, almost masculine hands. The other eye, a pale, light blue, stares sideways, unblinking. Her grey hair is worn above her shoulder and she has a short fringe, a practical haircut for a hard woman. On her desk are stacks of parchment, a wide folder with several smaller sheets of parchment inside, and several wizarding photographs. A small plaque on the paneled wall reads, "Madame Bones, Director, Magical Law Enforcement."

Without looking up, she gestures to one of the worn leather chairs and says, "Mr. Potter, in your condition, I'd prefer if you sat. I don't want you passing out and hurting yourself further."

"You'll forgive me ma'am if I don't exactly feel like relaxing in this place." Harry mutters, surly, his pain-killing potions having expired hours ago.

"Mr. Potter?" She looks up with her monocled eye from her report. The other eye remains staring into space.

Harry meets her intense stare with one of his own, and he says in a cold voice, "My godfather was killed in his cell while in your custody, ma'am. I think I'll stand, thank you."

She leans back in her chair and steeples her fingers. "Officially, Mr. Black's death was suicide."

Harry snorts bitterly, "Yeah, and I'm the Minister of Magic."

"Not yet..." she says under her breath. She raises her wand and Harry flinches, his crutches falling to the floor, his wand suddenly appearing in his right hand, a curse on his lips. Seeing that she isn't going to cast a spell on him, he straightens slowly. "Nice reflexes, Mr. Potter. Will this set your mind at ease? I swear on my office as Head of Magical Law Enforcement that no harm will befall Harry Potter while he is in my custody, provided he does not initiate hostility." The tip of her wand glows blue. Harry relaxes and nods. He picks up his crutches and slides into the nearest chair.

Several minutes later, a spry, white-haired man with a neatly trimmed, white beard, who wears light grey robes and thick spectacles, knocks on the door frame. Madame Bones looks up and nods at her visitor, who enters and takes the wrinkled leather chair opposite Harry. He swishes his wand and a stone basin filled with silvery fluid floats into the office and settles upon the desk.

Madame Bones raises her wand and, with a twirl, closes the door. "Algernon, if you could secure the room?" The older man makes several gestures with his wand that Harry doesn't recognize and a series of potent wards settle upon the walls, ceiling, and floor. The man casts a sequence of detection spells that cause Harry's magical sight to flare uncomfortably.

"Mr. Potter, I hope you don't mind, but I've asked a colleague of mine to join us. He's from a research branch of the Ministry." Harry nods warily as she continues, "While I don't agree with his decision, the Minister has ruled that any information about Voldemort's return is to be sealed. The official Ministry line is that nothing happened that evening."

Harry's face reddens and he starts to object, but is cut off by the imposing woman.

"_I_ for one believe that he _has_ returned! When four of my aurors, including two senior aurors, report to me that they saw Voldemort and several Death Eaters Apparate from a scene where obvious dark magic has been going on, I am inclined to put my faith in _them_ over a small-minded fool in a bowler hat."

She holds up a parchment with a Ministry seal at the bottom next to her angular signature. "This is an absolution from prosecution for anything that happened that night, and I mean anything, including your use of the Unforgivables. What I ask in return is that you share with us a pensieve memory of the graveyard so that we can know better what we're up against."

Harry considers this for a moment. "Nothing I did was illegal--even the killing curse..."

"Do you want to chance that with this administration?" she interrupts. "I've been able to temporarily bury the report on we found on your wand, but it won't stand up to a direct request from the Minister."

Harry thinks for a moment, then reaches for the document. "No ma'am. Though it's not a very pleasant memory."

"I don't suppose it is," she says wryly.

With a practiced motion, Harry touches his wand to his temple and slowly withdraws a misty tendril. Depositing it in the stone basin, he stands next to the other two near the rim of the the basin. In a flash and a quick sensation of falling, the three land in the graveyard next to a large cauldron.

More than an hour passes and they emerge. Madame Bones has an appreciative look on her face and the other man scratches his beard, deep in thought.

"Mr. Potter, that was... remarkable. We are most grateful for what you've shared with us."

Harry nods, his eyes glancing at the white-haired man as he notes that the visitor hasn't said a word since entering. Harry makes a skimming motion with his wand to recover his memory from the basin and he grabs his crutches from where they were leaning against his chair.

Flicking her wand, Madame Bones lowers the wards on the room. "Please have Auror Tonks escort you back to Hogwarts. We are done for today, Mr. Potter. Thank you again for coming here."

Harry shrugs, bows to both, and hobbles out of the doorway. After he leaves, she closes the door again and her colleague reseals it. "What do you think, Algernon?"

The man speaks in a soft monotone. "The boy is highly intelligent, magically exceptional and one of the last free Runescrives. He resisted Voldemort's _Imperius_ curse, which few can do. He has a proclivity and natural talent for dark magic, though not the temperament--not today, at any rate. I suggest we monitor him carefully." He clears his throat. "After Voldemort is eliminated, we shall need to decide whether, as a security precaution, to dispose of Potter as well, lest we be facing the rise of another Dark Lord. Until that time, he would be a valuable asset, even in the absence of the prophesy..."

"Prophesy?" The normally unflappable Department Head blinks.

* * *

Harry takes a deep breath and raps softly on the door. A moment later, it swings open and he sees Fleur, her eyes rimmed in red.

"Harry?" she asks, dabbing her eyes with a which cotton cloth.

"Fleur, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," she says quickly. Harry gives her a questioning look and she turns away. "I have spoken with Father..."

Harry nods and steps forward, attempting to pull her into a hug as his crutches fall to the flagstone floor with a loud clatter. She recoils from his touch, then nods, and steps into his embrace.

After a long moment they separate. Fleur picks up the crutches and hands them to Harry, who nods his thanks. "Come, Harry. Sit with me by the window." She closes the door and the two sit on a light green cushion beneath the wide bay. Outside, the sky is grey and overcast and a steady rain falls.

Harry holds Fleur's hands in his, but she doesn't meet his eyes. "Why do you still wish to be near me, Harry, knowing what my family did to you?"

"He told you about the Order?"

"_Oui_." Another tear falls down her cheek.

"Then why would _you_ wish to be near _me_, Fleur, knowing what I mean to them... and to you?" Harry asks softly.

"I love you, Harry, zat's why!"

"My point exactly," he says softly.

Fleur looks up and sees the hurt in Harry's emerald green eyes before he turns to look out over the wet courtyard.

"Fleur, I've been thinking a lot about things the last couple of days, about us... These past days have been some of the worst of my life, with Sirius dying..." His throat constricts as he closes his eyes, fighting the prickling feeling behind his eyelids. After a long moment, he opens them, watching the rain, then turns toward her with a bitter smile. "And some of the most brilliant too. I... I think I love you too, Fleur."

She blinks, stunned, and beams, then takes Harry's head in her hands and kisses him passionately on the lips, her fingers running through his tousled hair. After several minutes, they part, lips swollen, cheeks flushed.

"Fleur, this has all been so much like a dream to me. Besides Sirius, I've never really had anyone who loved me before, not that I can remember anyway. And I..." He sighs as his face harden. "I'm scared, Fleur. Scared that Voldemort will find a way to kill me and hurt those I care about. Or the Rosicrucians. Or the Ministry. I'm scared of a bloody prophesy that asks the impossible..."

"Prophesy?"

Harry shakes his head and turns toward the window as the rain falls more heavily. "Fleur, I love you dearly--I think I always will. But I have to know something."

"Anything," she whispers.

"We both know about the compulsion rune and that your father asked you to spy on me. Did he ever tell you to... get close to me? I mean, I'm just Harry and I'm nobody, really, and I don't know why you'd be interested in me and I don't deserve someone like you and..."

Fleur holds her finger to his lips. "Shh... and you fear zat tomorrow my love will go away, zat it was all just an artifact of magic." She leans forward and clutches onto him tightly, her head on his shoulder, tears again rimming her eyes. "Father did ask me to befriend you, Harry, but I know in my heart I fell in love on my own."

Harry nods, swallowing heavily.

"I understand," she whispers. "I know what it is to doubt if one's companion feels love or magic. I shall ask Father to release me."

Harry says in a choked voice, "And when you discover your true feelings?"

She pulls back and looks directly into his eyes. "When I can prove to you zat _c'est l'amour_, Harry, I swear I shall return to you."

She kisses him tenderly as thunder rumbles outside.

* * *

"We have much to discuss, _Voleur_." Chevalier conjures a crystal goblet and pours wine from a Burgundy-shaped bottle. He gestures to the rough stone table, where his companion conjures his own goblet. Chevalier fills the glass half-full.

Albus Dumbledore conjures a pair of white napkins, one for him, one for his companion. He tilts his glass and uses his napkin as a backdrop with which to examine the subtle coloration of the liquid. Bright sunlight shines in through the windows of the stone building and bathes the room in warm, pastoral colors. He swirls his wine. "Yes, old friend, we do." The slightly viscous fluid clings to the wall of the goblet. "Let us trade information, as I am sure we have much to offer one another."

"_Oui._ Very well then. A _quid pro quo _exchange_._ I shall start. Tell me, Albus, what you know of this Dark Lord." His milky eyes narrow.

Dumbledore chuckles as he examines the wine in his goblet. "That is rather open-ended, Chevalier. We shall be here for an age and then some and I shall, of course, require you to reciprocate. Did you, perchance, bring more wine?"

"Noted. Was this Voldemort destroyed in 1981? If no, what is his existence now?"

The aged Headmaster pauses as he sniffs his wine and measures his words. "No. He was not destroyed, merely dispelled from his body when his killing curse rebounded. I do not know how he was able to forestall death..." He winces as a sharp pain lances through his temples. "...but I have my suspicions." The pain relaxes.

Chevalier smirks coldly. "Albus, the veracity charms are active. As you know, we cannot help but be truthful with one another in this place."

"Very well. Voldemort, whose name is Tom Riddle, most likely used one of three means of which I know to cheat death. I am sure you know of them."

Chevalier nods.

"His existence for a time was that of a shade. We believe he assumed physical form as an homunculus approximately one year ago. Following my apprentice's abduction, he completed a resurrection ritual and rejoined with his body."

The Headmaster puts his long, crooked nose deep within the goblet and sniffs deeply. "My turn to ask. You have made seven assassination attempts on my apprentice. I know of agents Robért Dupuis, Gerard Delacour, and Michel Moreau-Dupuis. Harry fought Mr. Moreau-Dupuis earlier this year on the Hogwarts Express and he defeated the other Mr. Dupuis some weeks ago. Within the Beauxbatons Academy, you have Professors Bessette and Arceneau, members of the Order, and student, Fleur Delacour. You have two students within the Durmstrang Institute, a Mr. Bubulev and a Miss Macken, who provided information and access. You purchased the gambling debt of a Mr. Bagman, which you used to secure access to our competition. And, I believe, a Mr. Thomas from Hogwarts also passes you information on occasion in return for deposits into his Gringotts vault. To the best of my knowledge, the students are adjoint to the Order, though I notice that Miss Delacour has joined one rune. Am I correct?"

Chevalier coughs roughly. "I am impressed, _Voleur_. You did miss one abduction attempt, likely the one by a junior member that your apprentice defeated." The old man's eyebrow twitches with a low-grade headache; Fleur Delacour's joining of a control rune is still vexing to him. He sips and aspirates his wine to relish its rich bouquet. "I gather by your calling this meeting that you would wish for me not to kill your apprentice. Please tell me why I should not."

The Headmaster's eyes narrow. "Mutual gain, my friend. I do not exaggerate when I say that were to succeed, the Rosicrucians' goal of exclusivity shall be foiled eternally."

"Explain."

"There is a prophesy about Harry. I could show you a pensieve memory..." He gestures to the ancient stone building in which they sit. "But the magic of this place should suffice to ensure I speak the truth. This prophesy states unequivocally that _only_ Harry Potter can defeat Tom Riddle. If Harry were to die, Tom would achieve immortality."

"Interesting. So the Paracelsus line would never end."

The Headmaster sips his wine appraisingly. "A second prophesy made this past year indicated that Tom would indeed return to power. This prophesy--and preparation for Tom Riddle--is the reason I apprenticed Harry Potter. Now, please tell me whether, with this knowledge in hand, you would be willing to belay your vendetta against us so that we can deal with Tom."

"Indeed, I would entertain a suspension of hostility until such time as this Voldemort is defeated." Chevalier swallows his wine and notes the fineness of the finish. "But after that, I offer no guarantee, of course."

"Acceptable. Do you have any assassination attempts planned now?"

Chevalier purses his lips into a half-smile. "Only one that I know of. I shall endeavor to stop it after our meeting today."

The Headmaster's brow furls. "Can you share any details?"

"_Non_. I do not know any, as my lieutenant is coordinating it. But I shall deal with this matter posthaste." He places his goblet onto the table and levels a stare at the flamboyantly dressed Headmaster. "My turn. I have viewed pensieve memories of your apprentice's encounter with the dragon as well as that of his joining ritual at Yule and his performance in the maze task. Am I correct that he had not joined focus or power runes at the time he faced the dragon?"

The Headmaster takes a large swallow of wine as he considers the prudence of sharing Harry's uniqueness. He opts to share more than he had originally planned, since little will remain hidden if fate plays out as he hopes and he doesn't relish the headache that he will suffer if he withholds too much. "That is correct. Harry had joined merely a collection of minor rituals at the time--strength, magical sight, mental acuity, and the first two agility runes, if I remember correctly. He has since joined two precognition runes as well as the major ritual that you know of, the Anaximander focus."

"Amazing."

"Yes. Especially after the focus, Harry's control over his ancillary magical abilities has been... impressive, to say the least. After his first power enhancement ritual, which should transpire sometime this summer, I expect his raw magical potential to approach mine."

Chevalier's bushy white eyebrows rise to his forehead. "Surely not."

"Oh yes. I dare say, after his second such rune, he will eclipse even you, my old friend. Now tell me, do you intend for Miss Delacour to join the Order? I see she bears at least your first sigil, though in a nontraditional location. On her chest, if I recall, rather than the upper arm..." He smirks at the other man.

Chevalier shudders and the veracity runes snarl in anticipation of the lie on his tongue. "I admit, it has been discussed, but I have not formally authorized her apprenticeship as yet; we have not brought a witch into our Order before." The pain subsides, replaced by a dull throbbing. "I shall discuss this with my lieutenant in our meeting today." He takes a heavy swallow of wine. "After the focus, for how long was your apprentice unable to cast spells?"

"Somewhat over two months." Dumbledore quirks an eyebrow and then sips his wine, the rich liquid rolling over his tongue.

"Impossible!" The man drops his glass onto the table in surprise. A few droplets of red splash onto the granite tabletop.

"Indeed, recall where we are, dear friend." He offers his own wry smile. "You do know the implications of such a delay after the focus?..."

Chevalier nods, distracted by his thoughts. "Of course."

The Headmaster swallows the last of his wine and vanishes his goblet. "My turn, and then I must go. This is an excellent wine--would I be correct if I guessed a Château Haut-Brion, vintage... 1970?"

"_Oui_._"_ Chevalier turns the bottle so that the Headmaster can see the label.

The two elderly men, among the most powerful wizards in history, stand, shake hands, and Apparate away in a pair of faint pops. A half-drunk bottle of fine wine remains on the tabletop.

* * *

Harry sighs as he watches the sun set from atop the Astronomy Tower in a rare, solitary respite from his work. The last rays vanish and he feels pressed beneath the days' weariness, the lonely heartache, the grief. He espies in the distance a tiny patch of white set against the cloudless gloaming. His familiar and oldest friend had been missing for days and he had started to worry. In a few minutes, Hedwig lands with a rustle on his outstretched arm. She blinks and rubs his chin affectionately with the crown of her head as Harry strokes her feathers.

"Sorry, girl. I didn't know you were meeting me here, so you'll have to wait for later for a treat. Where did you run off to?"

Hedwig hoots softly and holds out her leg. Harry unfastens the letter, which has been tied with a lavender ribbon, and notes that it is written on chiffon paper. Bringing it to his nose, he catches a faint whiff of perfume, peach blossoms and cinnamon.

He unfolds the note and begins to read, smiling...

_Fin_.

* * *

_Author Notes__: This was the first longer piece of fiction I've written in nearly twenty years and my first novel-length piece in the Harry Potter universe. _

_I wish to thank several, whose efforts have led to essentially everything you may have found in here of quality. ParseltonguePhoenix, Fenraellis, and Vlad the Inhaler acted as beta readers--I didn't always listen to them, but I probably should have (especially you, Vlad). Sesc helped me with German cultural literacy and with finding some proper German names. Methene gave me several very useful critical comments on an early draft as well as corrected a horribly bad machine-translation of Romanian. The inspiration to write a Harry/Fleur pairing also came from him. Neisseria caught many grammatical mistakes as well as some botched Latin translations--thanks so much for your help. To anonymous reviewer, Diogenes, I offer my thanks for many, many critical reviews; may you someday find an honest man. The darklordpotter crew were, as always, brutal, harsh, honest, and invaluable in distilling quality from early drafts of this work; I also received sage comments from regulars on the fanficauthors and readcon sites. Jbern gave me pointers on another piece that I applied here. (And, he didn't yell too loudly when bits of my story happened to overlap a smidge with his). Respitechristopher provided encouragement at a key time when I had considered dumping the fic and taking up gardening for a hobby instead. Finally, I wish to thank the many readers who offered reviews and critical insight along the way--I learned more from you than you can imagine. _

_Where do we go from here? I wish like to hear from you, the august reader, whether you feel this universe and story warrants a sequel. As you can tell from this chapter, I have allowed for the possibility of one. If I do write one, it will be in the same fashion as this, where I write the bulk of the story before posting. (I'm not good enough to write a serial--I need more authorial control). Nearly one thousand of you put this story on alerts and another five hundred, on favorites--if those who haven't yet could drop a note, either PM or in a review, letting me know what you think of the story and whether you think it should continue from here, I would be most appreciative. _

_Thank you again for honoring me with your free time. _

_Best wishes to you,_

_-Brian_


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